
Copyright )J^. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR 

ESSAY 

REPRESENTATIVE TEXTS 



EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BY 
WILLIAM FRANK BRYAN, Ph.D. 

AND 

RONALD Sr CRANE, Ph.D. 

OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH OF NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY 



GINN AND COMPANY 

BOSTON . NEW YORK • CHICAGO • LONDON 
ATLANTA • DALLAS • COLUMBUS • SAN FRANCISCO 



COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY WILLIAM FRANK BRYAN 

AND RONALD S. CRANE 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

316. 1 






»» JtH^ 



GINN AND COMPANY • PRO- 
PRIETORS • BOSTON 'U.S.A. 



B 10.13^6,^ 



arjLA41 



PREFACE 

Probably no one will undertake to controvert the statement that a 
definition of the essay has not yet been made both inclusive enough 
to cover all the different kinds of prose to which the name has been 
given and still sufficiently restrictive to mark out any particular quali- 
ties which distinguish the essay from any other comparatively brief 
composition. An attempt to discover the characteristics common to 
Locke's " Essay on the Human Understanding," Lamb's " Dissertation 
on Roast Pig," Macaulay's '' Warren Hastings," Carlyle's " Essay on 
Burns," and Arnold's "Sweetness and Light" would pretty surely 
(demonstrate that these various pieces of literature do not belong to any 
"single, unified genre. There are, however, a large number of writings 
:ommonly called " essays " which have traditionally been felt to consti- 
ute a distinct type. These are characterized by a personal, confidential 
ittitude of the writers toward their subjects and their readers, by an 
nformal, familiar style, and by a concern with everyday manners and 
norals or with individual emotions and experiences rather than with 
> U'lic affairs or the material of systematic thinking. It is with the 
•ssay of this more narrowly limited type — perhaps best called the 
'amiliar Essay — that the present volume is exclusively concerned. 
In treating the Familiar Essay the editors have designed not to 
/"arnish models for a course in English composition or to compile an 
anthology, but to present such a selection of texts as will exhibit 
clearly the development of the genre in England. The complete ac- 
C'-jmplishment of this purpose has made it necessary, of course, to 
begin outside of England with Montaigne, the originator of the type, 
and to include specimens of his essays. A similar consideration has 
led to the inclusion of a brief extract from La Bruyere. But with these 
exceptions only British writers are represented. However delightful or 
stimulating are the essays of Irving and Emerson and Lowell, they 
have not affected the development of the type ; and regard for unity 
of purpose, combined with lack of space, compels their exclusion. 
Further, instead of presenting one or two essays each by a great 

iii 



iv THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

number of writers, the collection is confined to the works of the most 
significant and influential essayists, in the belief that an adequate 
representation of their work is the truest way of making clear the 
evolution of the type. The selection of the individual essays, however, 
has been made with as much regard to their intrinsic interest and 
charm as to their historical significance. 

As this collection is prepared not for the scholar-specialist but for 
the general reader and the college undergraduate, the spelling and the 
punctuation have been revised wherever adherence to earlier usage 
would baffle or seriously annoy the reader. The essays of the seven- 
teenth and the eighteenth centuries have been modernized to this 
extent ; those of the nineteenth century, in this respect, have been 
left almost wholly untouched. In every case the texts of the essays 
are those of standard editions, and they have been carefully collated 
wherever collation has seemed advisable. 

The introduction tries to present in the briefest possible com^ ^ 
an ordered account of the historical development of the Fami 
Essay in England ; and for this sketch especial effort has been ma 
to secure accuracy in matters of both fact and inference. For l 
section on Montaigne, and Bacon's relationship to Montaigne, 1 
editors are deeply indebted to the careful and illuminating monograp 
of M. Pierre Villey; their obligations to other studies of the vai ;<- 
essayists, though very considerable, do not demand here such [y,- 
ticularization. A large part of the material for the introduction th / 
have gathered from the original sources. 

The notes, it is hoped, will contribute directly to an intelligent ;p- 
preciation of the text. Quotations and allusions have been definitely 
placed, in order to throw light upon the extent and the character of 
the reading of the various essayists ; and wherever it has appeared 
that an explanation or a statement of fact would really be of servivfe 
to the reader, a note has been supplied. The notes, though full, are 
not compendiums of general information, but each concerns immedi- 
ately the passage in the text to which it is related. All foreign words 
and phrases have been translated ; the meaning of an English word, 
however, has been given only when the word is used in a sense not 
made clear in the sort of dictionary presumably owned by any person 
who wishes to read intelligently. The bibliographical essay, like the 
notes, is intended to be of practical utility to the general student and 



PREFACE V 

reader. It includes the titles of only the most notable complete edi- 
tions, of the most satisfactory inexpensive editions of the essays or of 
selections from them, and of a small number of studies which contain 
pertinent and valuable information on the development of the type 
or on the individual essayists, or which will be of definite assistance 
to the reader who desires fuller information than he can obtain from 
the necessarily compacted introduction and notes of this volume. 

Throughout this work both editors have collaborated closely, and 
both are equally responsible for selection and arrangement ; but each 
acknowledges a more definite accountability for certain sections. The 
preparation of the text for the seventeenth and the eighteenth cen- 
turies, with the accompanying notes and the corresponding section of 
the introduction, is the work of Dr. Crane ; for the material of the 
nineteenth century Dr. Bryan is similarly responsible. 

The editors desire to acknowledge gratefully their obligations to 
Charles Scribner's Sons for permission to reprint Stevenson's ''The 
Lantern Bearers," and to the Newberry Library and the libraries of 
Harvard University and of Northwestern University for services that 
have made the work possible. To their former colleague, Mr. Herbert 
K. Stone, now of the University of Illinois, and to their present col- 
leagues and friends. Professor Keith Preston, Messrs. George B. 
Denton, J. B. McKinney, and Arthur H. Nethercot, they desire also 
to express their appreciation of assistance generously given. Almost 
every page of the introduction owes something to Mr. Denton's 

keen and thoughtful criticism. 

W. F. B. 
EvANSTON, Illinois R. S. C. 



CONTENTS! 

PAGE 

A History of the English Familiar Essay 

I. Montaigne and the Beginnings of the Essay in England . . . xi 

II. The Periodical Essay of the Eighteenth Century .... xxiv 

III. The New Magazine Essay of the Nineteenth Century . . . xli 

Michel de Montaigne 

The Author to the Reader i 

Of Sorrow 2 

Of Repentance 5 

Sir Francis Bacon 

Of Studies 22 

Of Empire 24 

Of Truth 30 

Of Death , 32 

Of Adversity 34 

Of Envy 35 

Of Travel 39 

Of Friendship .42 

Of Plantations 48 

/ Of Gardens 51 

Abraham Cowley 

The Dangers of an Honest Man in Much Company 58 

Of Myself 63 

Seventeenth Century Characters 

A Mere Young Gentleman of the University .... Earle 69 

A Contemplative Man Earle 70 

[The Character of Arrias] La Bruyere 70 

The Tatler 

No. I. [Prospectus] Steele 73 

No. 29. [On Duelling] Steele 75 

^ Titles of essays in brackets have been supplied by the editors. 

vii ■ 



Vlll 



THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 



No. 95. [Happy Marriage] Steele 

No. 132. [The Club at the Trumpet] Steele 

No. 158. [The Character of Tom Folio] .... Addison 

No. 181. [Recollections] Steele 

No. 230. [False Refinements in Style] . . . Steele and Swift 

No. 244. [On Conversation] Steele 

The Spectator 



No. I. 
No. 2. 
No. 7. 
No. 10 
No. 23 
No. 26 
No. 49 
No. 50 
No. 66 
No. 106 
No. 108 
No. 123 
No. 159 
No. 281 
No. 323 
No. 381 
No. 409 
No. 422 
No. 477 



[The Character of Mr. Spectator] . . . Addison 

[The Spectator Club] Steele 

[Popular Superstitions] Addison 

[The Purpose of The Spectator'] .... Addison 

[Ill-Nature in Satire] Addison 

[Meditations in Westminster Abbey] . . Addison 

[Coffee-house Company] Steele 

[The Journal of the Indian Kings] . . . Addison 

[The Education of Girls] Steele 

[Sir Roger de Coverley at Home] . . . Addison 
[The Character of Will Wimble] .... Addison 
[The Story of Eudoxus and Leontine] . . Addison 

[The Vision of Mirza] Addison 

[A Coquette's Heart] Addison 

[Clarinda's Journal] Addison 

[Cheerfulness] Addison 

[Literary Taste] Addison 

[On Raillery] Steele 

[On Gardens] Addison 



The Rambler Johnson 

No. 29. [The Folly of Anticipating Misfortunes] 

No. 42. [The Misery of a Fashionable Lady in the Country] 



PAGE 

82 

86 
89 

93 
96 



\ 



01 

05 
10 

14 
17 
21 
24 

28 

31 
33 

37 
40 

44 
48 

51 

SS 
59 
63 
67 



171 
175 



The Citizen of the World Goldsmith 

Letter I. [The Chinese Philosopher in England] . . . 180 

Letter II. [First Impressions of England] 180 

Letter IV. [National Characteristics] 183 

Letter LIV. [The Character of Beau Tibbs] 186 

Letter LV. [The Character of Beau Tibbs (Continued)] . . . 1 89 

Letter LXXVII. [A Visit to a London Silk Merchant] .... 193 



CONTENTS ix 

PAGE 

Charles Lamb 

A Bachelor's Complaint of the Behaviour of Married People . . 196 

Valentine's Day 203 

Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago 207 

The Two Races of Men 220 

Imperfect Sympathies 226 

• Dream-Children; a Reverie 235 

The Praise of Chimney-Sweepers 239 

Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading 247 

Modern Gallantry 253 

' Old China 258 

Poor Relations 264 

The Superannuated Man 271 

James Henry Leigh Hunt 

Autumnal Commencement of Fires 279 

Getting Up on Cold Mornings 282 

The Old Gentleman 285 

Deaths of Little Children 290 

Shaking Hands 294 

William Hazlitt 

On Reading Old Books 297 

On Going a Journey 31-0 

On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth 321 

William Makepeace Thackeray 

Tunbridge Toys 333 

On Being Found Out 339 

De Finibus 347 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

Walking Tours 357 

On Falling in Love 365 

The Lantern-Bearers 374 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 387 

NOTES 393 



A HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR 

ESSAY 

I. MONTAIGNE AND THE BEGINNINGS OF 
THE ESSAY IN ENGLAND 

The Familiar Essay made its first appearance in England during 
one of the most crowded and prolific periods of her literary his- 
tory — the last decade of the sixteenth century. As a distinct type 
of prose writing it was not native to England, although many of the 
literary practices out of which it developed were to be found there, 
as in most of the countries of Europe. The direct stimulus to its 
cultivation by English writers came from France. 

In the year 1570 a French gentleman, Michel de Montaigne, 

gave up his post as a lawyer in Bordeaux and retired to his country 

. estates, for the purpose, as he himself expressed it, of 

(1533-1592) : '' living in quiet and reading." In his education and 

his education tastes Montaigne was a typical cultured Frenchman of 
and tastes 

the Renaissance. At the instance of his father, an enthu- 
siastic admirer of Italian humanism, he was taught Latin before he 
learned French, and at college he had among his tutors some of the 
most accomplished classical scholars of the time. His culture conse- 
quently took on a very pronounced Latin and Italian tinge ; Greek 
writers he read with difficulty, and by preference in translations ; and 
his interest in earlier and contemporar^y French literature was limited 
to a few authors and books, principally in the field of history. Above 
all, as he grew older he became absorbed in the moral problems 
which the revival of the literatures and philosophies of antiquity, 
together with the discovery of America, had brought to the fore all 
over Europe. It was doubtless to gain more time for reflection on 
these questions that at the age of thirty-seven he abandoned active 
life for a quiet existence in his library at Montaigne. He had not 
been there long before a natural desire to '' preserve his memories " 
and to *' clarify his reflections " led him to write. 

xi 



xii THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

The form which his first compositions took was in no sense origi- 
nal with him. By the middle of the sixteenth century there had come 

, into existence, in nearly all the countries touched by the / 
Sources and r i i • i i / 

character of Renaissance, various types of works designed to make ac-/ 

his early cessible the knowledge and ideas of antiquity. Some of 
these had themselves an antique origin. Thus, from ^he 
so-called Distichs of Cato, a work dating from the late Roman Empire, 
proceeded a long line of collections of " sentences," or moral m,axims, 
of which Erasmus's Adagia (1500) was perhaps the most celebrated 
— books in which were brought together, sometimes u'lder general 
heads such as ^' education," " the brevity of life," " aeath," " youth 
and age," " riches," etc., wise sayings of ancient and often, too, of mod- 
ern authors. Similarly, the influence of Plutarch (born cir. 46 a.d.) 
and of Valerius Maximus (first century a.d.) led to the compilation 
of numerous books of apothegms, or " sentences " put into the mouths 
of historical personages, and of '' examples," or significant anecdotes 
culled from the writings of historians and moralists. Works of this 
kind enjoyed an extraordinary vogue during the Renaissance ; they 
existed in nearly all the modern languages as well as in Latin, and 
some of them ran through literally hundreds of editions. Strictly 
speaking, however, they were not so much books as extremely arid 
compilations of raw material. To supplement them, and to present 
the wisdom of antiquity in a more readable form, certain humanists 
developed, chiefly from hints furnished by such ancient authors as 
Aulus Gellius (2d century a.d.) and Macrobius (5th century a.d.), a 
special type of writing, commonly called in France the lepn mo7'ale^ in 
which ** sentences," apothegms, and '* examples " were fused together 
in short dissertations on ethical subjects. The writers who cultivated 
this genre, whether in Latin dr in the various vernaculars, had for 
the most part a purely practical object — to collect and make readily 
accessible the views and discoveries of the ancients on all questions 
relating to the conduct of life. They attached themselves by prefer- 
ence to subjects of a general and commonplace sort, such as strange 
customs and singular happenings, the grandeur and misery of man, 
the intelligence of animals, the moral virtues, the force of the imagi- 
nation, death ; and in treatment they seldom went beyond an imper- 
sonal, unoriginal grouping of maxims and " examples." 



\ 



INTRODUCTION xiii 

When Montaigne began to write, probably in 1571, it was to the 
compilers of lemons that he looked for literary inspiration. It was, in- 
deed, only natural that he should do so ; for his own aims in writing 
were at first almost precisely the same as theirs. He had no ambition 
to write an original book ; he wished only to bring together, with a 
minimum of effort, the interesting and helpful passages which he en- 
countered in his reading. Accordingly, his first compositions belonged 
essentially in both manner and matter to the genre which these com- 
pilers had popularized. Some of them, as, for example, a little piece 
entitled " That the Hour of Parley is Dangerous," were merely brief 
collections of anecdotes and " sentences," unified by a common sub- 
ject ; others, such as " Of the Inequality Amongst Us " and '*' Of 
Sorrow," ^ had a somewhat more elaborate organization, but were 
constructed out of the same elements. The subjects, all of them 
questions of morals or practical affairs, had nearly all been treated 
already by one or another of the numerous writers of lemons. In 
dealing with them afresh Montaigne displayed an impersonality of 
method quite as marked as that of any of his predecessors. Now 
and then he developed in his own way a maxim from an ancient 
writer, added a word of comment to one of his numerous moral 
stories, or contributed a sentence or two of transition ; but beyond 
that his ambition did not go ; there were no personal confidences, 
no revelations of his own experience and ideas. 

Such was the character of the writings with which Montaigne oc- 
cupied himself during the year or two following his retirement. His 
His creation subservience to the ideals and methods of the le^on was 
of the per- complete. About 1574, however, before he had published 
sona essay anything, a change began in his conception and practice 
of composition which was to result, before 1580, in the creation of 
an entirely new literary form — the personal essay. Among the in- 
fluences which contributed to this change one of the most potent 
certainly was that of his own temperament. Montaigne had brought 
into his retirement a strong native tendency to moral reflection and 
self-analysis — a tendency which his isolation from affairs, and especially 
a severe illness which he underwent about 1578, no doubt helped to 
intensify. But there were literary factors also at work. Shortly after 

1 See pp. 2-5, below. 



xiv THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

1572 he fell under the spell of the writings of Plutarch, then lately 
translated into French by Jacques Amyot. In these, particularly in 
the collection of short moral discourses known as Moralia, he found 
models of a very different sort from the dry and impersonal compila- 
tions He had imitated hitherto. Plutarch's chapters were, it is true, 
full of maxims and ''examples"; but the maxims and ''examples" did 
not form the substance of the composition — they were wholly sub- 
ordinate to the personal reflections of the author. The naturalness 
and freedom from pedantry of the old Greek moralist made a pro- 
found impression on Montaigne ; he seems to have had the Moralia 
almost constantly before him during a period of several years, and 
their influence had much to do with the transformation of his own 
methods of composition. 

This transformation first appeared clearly in a number of pieces 
written between 1578 and 1580.^ Content no longer with a mere 
compilation of striking passages from his reading, Montaigne now 
aimed to give primarily his own reflections on moral and psychological 
subjects. The quotations and '' examples," it is true, still abounded ; 
but their function was changed ; they were not, as before, the basis 
of the composition, but rather simply a means of illustrating the 
writer's thought. Moreover, to the " examples '' drawn from books 
Montaigne began now to add anecdotes taken from his own memory 
and observation. Thus, in a chapter entitled " Of the Education of 
Children," after setting forth the general principles which should govern 
in the training of children, he proceeded to give a sketch, full of inti- 
mate details, of his own education. Again, in the chapter " Of Books" 
he discoursed not so much of books in general as of his own individ- 
ual tastes and prejudices in literature. In short, the chapters written 
during this second period of Montaigne's career tended to become 
each a tissue of personal reflections, colored, to be sure, but no longer 
dominated, by their writer's reading. For the most part, too, they 
were considerably longer than those of the first period, and far less 
regular and orderly in composition. 

2 Especially, " Of the Education of Children," " Of the Affection of Fathers 
to their Children," " Of Books," " Of Cruelty," " Of Presumption," and " Of 
the Resemblance of Children to their Fathers." With the exception of the 
first, all of these pieces are to be found in the second book of the Essais. 
The first book is almost entirely made up of impersonal essays of Montaigne's 
earliest period. 



INTRODUCTION xv 

In 1580 Montaigne assembled the chapters he had written up to 

that time — ninety-four in all — and published them at Bordeaux in 

,. . two books, entitling; them modestly Essais. The name, a 
First edition ' i- . ,r . 1 

of Mon- new one in European literature, itself gave warning that 

taigne's ^\^q collection was no mere book of conventional kf07is, 

but, in however tentative a way, an original work. But 
Montaigne was not content with this indirect advertisement of his 
new-found purpose. Forgetful of nearly the whole of the first book, 
and thinking only of a few chapters in the second, he insisted, in 
his prefatory epistle to the reader, on the personal character of his 
undertaking. " It is," he wrote, " myself I portray." 

Between 1580 and 1588 Montaigne continued to busy himself 
with his book, and in the latter year brought out a new edition, in 
Montaigne's which, along with revised versions of the essays written 
later essays before 1580, he included thirteen entirely new chapters.^ 
In these last pieces the traits which had been slowly coming to 
characterize his writing since about 1574 became still more marked. 
The individual essays were longer; the composition was if anything 
more rambling and discursive ; and, though the quotations and the 
"examples" remained, the personal experiences and reflections of the 
writer formed even more notably the center of the work. Everywhere, 
no matter what the subject announced at the beginning of the chapter, 
Montaigne talked of himself — of his memories of youth, of the curi- 
ous and interesting things which had happened to him in manhood, 
of his habits of body and mind, of his whims and prejudices, of his 
ideas. Like the good moralist he was, he took on the whole more 
interest in what happened within him than in the external events of 
his life. " I can give no account of my life by my actions," he wrote 
in the essay " Of Vanity " ; '' fortune has placed them too low ; I must 
do it by my fancies." But it was not his intention to write anything 
like a formal autobiography even of his inner life. He wished rather 
to find in his own experiences, commonplace as many of them were, 
light on the general moral problems which were always the primary 
subject of his reflections. " I propose," he said, speaking of his design 

3 These formed a third book. Among them were the essays on which 
Montaigne's fame has perhaps most largely rested : "Of Repentance," " Upon 
Some Verses of Virgil," " Of Coaches," " Of the Inconvenience of Greatness," 
" Of Vanity," " Of Experience." 



xvi THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

to picture himself, " a life ordinary and without luster ; 't is all one ; 
all moral philosophy may as well be applied to a common and private 
life, as to one of richer composition ; every man carries the entire 
form of human condition." Such was the philosophical conception 
which underlay the personal essay as it was finally developed by 
Montaigne. 

The Essais, popular from the first in France, were not long in 
making their way across the Channel into England. In 1595, three 
The Essais years after Montaigne's death, a copyright was issued for 
in England an English translation, possibly the one which appeared 
in 1603. This version was the work of a literary schoolmaster named 
John Florio. As a representation of the original it was far from faith- 
ful. It was written, however, in picturesque if somewhat obscure Eng- 
lish, and it acquired enough popularity in the early seventeenth century 
to make necessary at least two reprintings. In this translation, or in 
the original French, the Essais were read by an extensive public, which 
numbered some of the most eminent names in Elizabethan letters. 
Under these circumstances it is not strange that the literary genre 
which Montaigne created — the informal, personal essay — should 
have become naturalized in England. 

The first work by an English writer to bear the name of the new 

form appeared in 1597. Early in that year Francis Bacon, then a 

, rising lawyer in the service of the queen, published a 

first essays : small volume entitled Essayes. Religious Meditatiojis. 

their source Places of perswasion and disswasioji. The ''essayes" 

in sixtGcntli" 

century col- were ten in number : " Of Study," " Of Discourse," " Of 

lections of Ceremonies and Respects," " Of Followers and Friends," 
''sentences" ,, ^^ Suitors," '' Of Expense," '' Of Regiment of Health," 
" Of Honour and Reputation," "Of Faction," and '' Of Negotiating." 
In reality they were not essays in the Montaigne sense at all, but 
rather short collections of '' sentences " or aphorisms, of a type which 
had been familiar throughout Europe during the whole of the sixteenth 
century. Each piece consisted of a series of brief, pointed maxims 
relating to the general subject proposed at the beginning ; there was 
little attempt at order ; and the individual maxims were quite devoid 
of concrete illustration or development of any kind. Fundamentally 
Bacon's purpose in writing the book was not to discuss questions of 
morals or psychology in the light of his own experience in life, but to 



INTRODUCTION xvii 

furnish in a condensed, memorable form practical counsel to those 
ambitious of success in public affairs. Only the title, it would seem, 
came from Montaigne, and that was doubtless added some time after 
the book itself was completed. 

It was not long, however, before essays really of the Montaigne 
type made their appearance. In two volumes, published in 1600 and 
Cornwallis's 160 1, Sir William Cornwallis, a friend of Ben Jonson, 
Essays brought out a collection of fifty-two pieces, for the most 

part short, dealing with such general themes as resolution, patience, 
love, glory, ambition, discourse, fame, judgment, sorrow, vanity, for- 
tune, and the like. Like Montaigne, to whom in several passages of 
warm praise he acknowledged his debt, Cornwallis wrote his Assays 
largely in the first person, made abundant illustrative use of "" exam- 
ples," some from ancient historians and poets, some from his own 
experience, and in general afforded a rather full revelation of his 
ideas, tastes, and sentiments. As a result, in part no doubt, of 
this strong personal note, his book shared during the first third of 
the seventeenth century not a little of the popularity of its model. 

The next important occurrence in the history of the new genre 
in England was the appearance in 161 2 of an enlarged edition of 
Bacon's ^^^ £ssays of Bacon. From ten in the edition of 1597 the 

Essays number of chapters had now become thirty-eight. The 

1012 ^j.g^ essays were reprinted without fundamental change ; 

here and there new maxims were added, and some of the old ones 
given a slight degree of development ; but on the whole their original 
character remained unaltered. Of the newer essays a few, such as 
"Of Praise," ''Of Delay," and "Of Fortune," belonged essentially to 
the old type of " sentences " ; the majority, however, exhibited traits 
which showed that Bacon's conception of the essay as a form and his 
own methods of writing were beginning to change. Thus, in many 
of the pieces there appeared a more marked element of order and com- 
position ; quotations and " examples," usually very briefly indicated, 
became an established feature of the exposition ; in a word, the old 
ideal of a collection of detached maxims began to give place, in 
Bacon's mind, to that of a more continuous and living discourse. 

This evolution, clearly apparent in the essays first published in 
161 2, became still more pronounced in the final collection which 
Bacon put forth in 1625. The total number of essays was now 



xviii THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

increased to fifty-eight. Of the old ones nearly all had been subjected 
to some revision, those of 1612 undergoing the greatest change. 
Bacon's ^^^ result was a body of writing which differed in sev- 

Essays eral important features from the Essays of 1597. For 

° ^ ^5 one thing, many of the pieces now exhibited something 

like orderly and planned composition ; instead of merely juxtaposed 
maxims, there was now, in many cases (as in the essay " Of Friend- 
ship "), a clear and explicit development by points. The average 
length also had increased ; many of the new essays covered from six 
to ten pages. Furthermore, the style was different — without losing 
its epigrammatic flavor, it was fuller, richer in imagery, more circum- 
stantial. But the most significant changes were the increase in the 
number of historical '' examples " and the introduction of a certain 
amount of personal opinion and reminiscence. Scarcely an essay now 
but had its illustrations from ancient or modern history ; in some 
pieces (as, for example, " Of Empire ") they occupied nearly as much 
space as the general reflections which they served to clarify and illu- 
minate. Along with them appeared for the first time anecdotes derived 
from Bacon's own experience in life ; as when, in the essay " Of 
Prophecies," he reported the '' trivial prophecy, which I heard when 
I was a child," that " When hempe is sponne, England 's done." 
More and more, too, he formed the habit of stating his opinions in 
the first person. 

Such were some of the differences in form and spirit which sepa- 
rated Bacon's essays of 1625 from their predecessors of 1597. Sev- 
Causes of eral influences probably combined to produce the change. 

the trans- jj^ ^-j^g ^j-g^- pi^ce, one of Bacon's dreams for a number of 

formation in ... 

Bacon's years past had been the construction of a science of morals. 

Essays j^ his Z>e Atiginentis Scientiai'iun (1623) he had proposed 

as a means to this end the writing of short monographs on each 

of the passions, virtues, and types of character. He never carried 

out his design in full ; but it is not unlikely that such essays as 

those " Of Envy " and " Of Simulation and Dissimulation," which 

were among the most finished and orderly of the 1625 group, were 

composed as examples of the monographs he had in view. Another 

probable influence was that of the Epistles of Seneca (first century 

A.D.), one of the most widely read of ancient works on morals, a book 

constantly quoted by Bacon. In a canceled preface to the edition of 



INTRODUCTION xix 

1 612 he had remarked of the title of his own book: "The word is 
late, but the thing is ancient. For Seneca's Epistles to Lucilius, if 
one mark them well, are but essays, — that is, dispersed meditations, 
— though conveyed in the form of epistles." Finally, much of the 
impetus to the change in his methods of writing, particularly after 
161 2, would appear to have come from Montaigne. Montaigne's 
influence it was, in all likelihood, that led Bacon to cultivate a more 
picturesque style, to develop his meager aphorisms into connected 
discourses, to multiply illustrations of all kinds, and — though to a 
very limited degree — to speak of himself. 

Yet, in spite of this influence, the type of essay which Bacon devel- 
oped resembled only superficially that of Montaigne. In form it was 
Differences shorter^ more compact and orderly, and far less personal ; 
between the jj^ content it had a practical bias which for the most part 
Bacon and Montaigne's wanted. From first to last Bacon's purpose 
Montaigne was to give, from his own extensive knowledge of life 
and history, sound advice which would profit those whose ambition 
it was to rise in t he world of courts and council chambers. The 
title which he prefixed to the edition of 1625 — Essays, or Counsels 
Civil and Moral — exactly expressed his aim. His book was to be 
a manual of morality and policy for aspiring courtiers and statesmen. 
It is true that in the second and third editions he included essays 
of a more general sort — meditations on truth, death, beauty, friend- 
ship. But, aside from the fact that even here a certain amount of 
worldly wisdom crept in, these essays were far less typical of the 
work as a whole than those which dealt with such themes as the 
practice of dissimulation, the relative advantage of marriage and 
single life to public men, the means of rising to great place, the best 
method of dealing with rebellious subjects, the value of travel in the 
education of a gentleman, the management of an estate, the causes 
which make nations great, the best way to govern colonies, the 
economy of princely buildings and gardens. In short, though almost 
certainly indebted to Montaigne for a number of characteristic fea- 
tures, — for the most part, to be sure, features whicli Montaigne de- 
rived from the writers of lefo?is, — Bacon's Essays really introduced 
a new and distinct variety of the genre. 

During the thirty-five years which elapsed between the completion 
of Bacon's work and the Restoration, several other writers tried their 



XX THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

hands at the familiar essay. With some of these the dominant in- 
spiration was Bacon, with others Montaigne. Thus Owen Felltham 
Decline of in his Resolves: Divi?ie, Moral., Political (cir. 1620; a 

the essay be- second part in 1628) adapted Bacon's later method and 
tween Bacon , . / . . ,-, -r. • • 

and the Style to the exposition 01 ideas quite unlike Bacon s in 

Restoration their emphasis on the religious and devotional side of 
life ; while Sir Thomas Browne in his Religio Medici (written about 
1635, published in 1642) united with a quaint picturesqueness of 
thought and expression peculiar to himself, not a little of Mon- 
taigne's characteristic manner of personal revelation. Neither of 
these writers, however, nor any of their fellows, had any appreciable 
influence on the development of the essay. They wrote, moreover, at 
a time when the essay as a type was undergoing a marked eclipse of 
its earlier popularity. No doubt in part this eclipse was due to the 
superior attractiveness for the men of this generation of the '^ char- 
acter " * ; no doubt in part also it reflected the absorption o^ the ablest 
minds of the period in the political and religious controversies which 
preceded and accompanied the Civil War. Whatever the causes, an 
eclipse took place, and it w^as not until the more peaceful days of the 
Restoration that essay-writing again assumed a place of prominence 
among the activities of literary Englishmen. 

In this revival, as in the original introduction of the form, the all- 
important factor was the influence of Montaigne. After suffering 
, a temporary obscuration during the period of the Civil 
the essay War, Montaigne's popularity became greater than ever 

after the durins: the last forty years of the seventeenth century. 
Restoration ^^, , ■^ ^ ^ ■ , • • 1, 

— the influ- I he causes that contributed to this result were principally 

ence of Mon- two : the greatly increased interest in French literature 

^ ^ which characterized the public of the generation after the 

Restoration, and the appeal which Montaigne made to the growing 

current of scepticism and free-thought. In 1685 Charles Cotton, a 

poet and translator, the joint author with Izaak Walton of The Com- 

pleat Afigler, published a new version of the Essais, which went 

through three editions by 1700 and completely superseded Florio's 

now largely obsolete translation. The admirers of Montaigne included 

some of the most distinguished and influential persons of the age. 

He was a favorite author of the poet Cowley ; Dryden referred to 

* See below, p. xxxi. 



INTRODUCTION xxi 

him, in the preface to All for Love, as " honest Montaigne " ; he was 
one of the writers with whom Wycherley, according to his friend 
Pope, used to " read himself to sleep " ; the Marquis of Halifax 
confessed that the Essais was " the book in the world I am best 
entertained with." In this atmosphere of enthusiasm for Mon- 
taigne the form which he had created began once more to attract 
English writers. 

The man who most successfully cultivated the familiar essay in the 
period after the Restoration was Abraham Gowley. Cowley brought 
Abraham ^^ ^^^ writing of essays not only a mind stored with the 
Cowley best classical learning of the day and a sensibility made 

(I I -1 7) delicate by long practice as a poet, but also a somewhat 
extensive experience in active affairs. A graduate of Trinity College, 
Cambridge, he was expelled from his fellowship in 1643 by the 
Puritans, and in 1646 followed the exiled queen of Charles I to 
France, where he was employed on various Royalist missions until 
the Restoration. On his return to England he looked confidently 
for some reward of his services from Charles II. Like many another 
good Royalist, however, he was disappointed in this expectation, and 
in 1663 he withdrew completely from public life and finally settled 
on a small estate in the country secured to him by his patrons the 
Earl of St. Albans and the Duke of Buckingham. Here he lived 
until his death in 1667. During the last four or five years of his 
life he amused himself by composing at intervals a number of short 
prose essays, each concluding with one or more verse translations 
from his favorite Roman poets. In them he dwelt on the superior 
advantages of liberty over dependence, of obscurity over greatness, 
of agriculture over business, and of a quiet life of reflection in the 
country over a crowded existence in city or court — all in a familiar 
style, enlivened by illustrations from his own experience and from the 
accumulated wisdom of ancient moralists and poets. The eleven 
essays thus written were published in the 1668 folio of his works 
under the title of Several Discourses, by Way of Essays, in Verse 
a7id Prose. 

Of all the English essayists of the seventeenth century, Cowley 
was most fully indebted to Montaigne. His interests in life, it is true, 
were narrower; he had little of Montaigne's spirit of free inquiry 
and criticism ; he was more restrained in his revelation of himself \ 



xxii THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

his language was less vigorous and picturesque. Nevertheless Mon- 
taigne — the Montaigne of the later, more personal Essais — was 
Cowley's in- ^^^ master. He it was who taught him, in large part 
debtedness to at least, the habit of self-analysis, the trick of weaving 
Montaigne -^^^^ j^-^ (discourse quotations and anecdotes from ancient 
writers, the secret of a free, informal composition and of a familiar, 
colloquial style. 

Toward the end of the centuiy another lover of Montaigne and of 
country life made a contribution to the essay almost if not quite as 
Sir William ^^o^able as that of Cowley. This was Sir William Temple, 
Temple perhaps best known to the public of his time as an astute 

(1628-1699) diplomat, the chief promoter of that Triple Alliance which 
united Holland, Denmark, and England against the growing power 
of Louis XIV. In intervals of official business, and especially during 
several periods of enforced retirement from public life, Temple was 
accustomed to spend his time on his country estate in Surrey. Here 
he cultivated his garden, cared for his fruit trees, which were famous 
throughout Europe, and diverted himself by setting down his thoughts 
on various subjects in the form of loosely organized essays modeled 
more or less closely on those of Montaigne. Sometimes his themes 
were literary, as in the discourses '' Upon the Ancient and Modem 
Learning " and " Of Poetry." More frequently, however, they were 
suggested by his experiences and reflections as a country gentleman 
upon his estate, as when he wrote of the cure of the gout, of garden- 
ing, of health and long life, of conversation. These essays, composed 
at different times between the late seventies and Temple's death in 
1699, were published in three volumes, entitled Miscellanea, in 1680, 
1690, and 1 70 1. 

If Cowley and Temple were the most important essayists of the 

last forty years of the seventeenth century, they were by no means 

Other essay- the only ones. George Savile (Marquis of Halifax), John 

ists contem- Sheffield (Duke of Buckingham), Charles Blount, Joseph 

porary with ^, .„ J^ ^ ^^. ^^ ^ 

Cowley and Glanvill, Jeremy Comer — all these men m various ways 

Temple carried on the traditions of Montaigne or of Bacon. As 

they initiated, however, no new departures in essay-writing, and had 

little influence on succeeding essayists, their activity was of small 

significance in the evolution of the type. 

With their passing, the first stage in the history of the essay in 



INTRODUCTION xxiii 

England came to a close. It was a stage characterized not so much 
by abundant and varied production or widespread popularity as by 
General char- experimentation on rather narrow lines. The great models 
acterofthe Qf ^-j^g genre, the writers whose methods and spirit ani- 
seventeenth mated the work of the lesser men, were Montaigne and 
century Bacon — the one presenting an ideal of frank and lively ) ., 

self-portraiture, the other inspiring to a concise and sententious, if^r 
somewhat impersonal, handling of general ideas. The influence of 
both men coincided on at least two points : with both of them, and 
consequently with all of their followers during the seventeenth 
century, the essay was primarily concerned with problems of moral- 
ity, in the large sense of the word ; and it treated these problems 
for the most part in the light of classical example and precept, or at 
least in the spirit of classical ethical reflection. " An Essay," wrote 
a certain Ralph Johnson in 1665, ''is a short discourse about any 
virtue, vice, or other commonplace." He might have added that 
the virtues and vices with which the essayists dealt were essentially 
individual virtues and vices — it was morality from the individual's 
point of view and in the individual's interest, and not from the point 
of view of society, that formed the burden of their reflections. The 
multifarious aspects of social life — manners, customs, institutions — 
interested them but slightly if at all. Of course in this they wrote but 
as children of their age. The period of the sixteenth and seven- 
teenth centuries, dominated still by the intellectual tendencies of the 
Renaissance, was in its thinking on ethical questions an age of 
pronounced individualism. Little wonder then that Montaigne and 
Bacon and their disciples fixed their attention chiefly, if not altogether, 
on the cultivation and expression of personality. Equally represent- 
ative of the culture of the time were the drafts which all of the 
essayists made upon ancient literature for aphorism and illustration. 
The abundance of " sentences " and '' examples " derived from Greek 
and especially Latin sources, the frequency of allusions to classical 
poets, moralists, and historians, the general disposition to find in 
ancient civilization and literature guidance for modern times — all 
these things clearly reflected the humanism out of which the essay 
originally developed and which still survived in cultured circles to the 
end of the seventeenth century. 



xxiv THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

II. THE PERIODICAL ESSAY OF THE EIGHTEENTH 

CENTURY 

Shortly after 1700 a new period opened in the history of the Eng- 
lish familiar essay. During the preceding hundred years the essay had 
Increased been essentially a minor form ; it had been neglected by 

prominence niost of the prominent writers, and cultivated by those 

and changed 

character who did attempt it only m their moments of leisure from 

of the essay more serious writing ; its public had been small and select, 
eighteenth Now, however, it took its place among the three or four 
century most important and widely popular literary types. Scarcely 

one of the great writers of the period, from Addison and Pope to 
Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith, but concerned himself with it at one 
time or another ; and its readers included Englishmen of all classes 
and tastes. Moreover, along with this rise in prominence, there took 
place a notable change in its aim and spirit. Whereas in the seven- 
teenth century the essay had been almost universally conceived as an 
informal, more or less personal, discourse on some phase of individual 
morality, it now became oriented definitely toward the analysis and 
criticism of contemporary social life. Stylistic changes, too, accom- 
panied these modifications in substance ; new methods of composition, 
new devices of exposition appeared alongside the old ; with the result 
that the essay of the eighteenth century constituted in many respects 
an entirely new literary type. 

This type was the joint creation of two men, Richard Steele (1672- 
1729) and Joseph Addison (1672-17 19), and as such it bore in 
unmistakable manner the impress of their personalities. However, 
as neither Steele nor Addison could escape the influence of their 
environment, the particular form and direction which they gave to 
the essay were in large measure determined by external conditions. 

Among these conditions none was of greater moment in shaping 

the essay in the eighteenth century than the development of literary 

Influences on periodicals. During the years immediately following the 

the new Revolution of 1688, when, under the stimulus of an 

essay: the aroused interest in politics and a relaxed censorship, 
rise or ^ '■ 

literary newspapers in the strict sense of the word began to 

periodicals appear in considerable numbers, certain persons con- 
ceived the idea of publishing journals that should deal, not primarily 
with news, but with some of the numerous miscellaneous matters of 



INTRODUCTION xxv 

fashions, literature, and morals that engaged the attention of the 
public. One of these persons, a bookseller named John Dunton, 
The Athe- began in 1691 to print a sheet which he called at first 
nian Mercury The Atheniaii Gazette and later The Athenian Mercu?y. 
(1691-1697) -j^g ^^^ ^Y\Q j^gj^ l-]-^^^ }^g associated with him in writing 

it aimed to furnish instruction mingled with entertainment. Their 
characteristic device was questions and answers ; they invited queries 
on all manner of subjects from their readers and undertook to reply 
to them in their paper. Thus, in one number they discussed the 
question '^ whether the torments of the damned are visible to the 
saints in heaven," and vice versa. But not all their space was de- 
voted to merely curious matters like this. Even more frequently they 
were called upon to supply useful information regarding history or 
natural science, to pronounce upon questions of taste, or to resolve 
nice problems of conduct and manners. Dunton continued to publish 
the Athenian Mercury for six years. It was the first journal of a 
miscellaneous character, not primarily concerned with politics, that 
England had seen. 

It was followed, after an interval, by others. Of these by far the 
most important and successful was A Weekly Revieiv of the Affairs 
Defoe's of France^ published between 1704 and 17 13 by Daniel 

Review Defoe. Defoe's primary object in issuing the Review was 

(1704-1713) |.Q pj-ovide himself with a medium through which he could 
express his opinions on public affairs, particularly on the struggle then 
going on with France, and on the progress of English trade. Each 
number, therefore, contained an essay from his pen on one or the 
other of these subjects. But he was too shrewd a man of business, 
and too well acquainted with the tastes of his readers, to confine 
himself to the serious matters of politics. ^' When I first found the 
design of this paper," he wrote in one of his prefaces, ''. . . I con- 
sidered it would be a thing very historical, very long, and though it 
could be much better performed than ever I was like to do it, this 
age had such a natural aversion to a solemn and tedious affair that, 
however profitable, it would never be diverting, and the world would 
never read it. To get over this difficulty that secret hand, I make no 
doubt, that directed this birth into the world dictated to make some 
sort of entertainment or amusement at the end of each paper, upon 
the immediate subject then on the tongues of the Town, which inno- 
cent diversion would hand on the more weighty and serious part of 



xxvi THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

the design into the heads and thoughts of those to whom it might be 
useful." This " entertaining part," which Defoe hoped would make 
readers for his more serious reflections, he called " Mercure Scandale : 
or. Advice from the Scandalous Club." It consisted of short discourses 
on questions of fashions, manners, morals, taste, and the like, purport- 
ing to be written by the members of the " Scandalous Club," usually in 
answer to inquiries sent to them from readers. For about a year it 
was published regularly in the Review ; then, on account of a press 
of other matter, it was taken out and issued separately, under the 
title of The Little Revieiv ; presently it was discontinued altogether. 

These journals were important in that they established in England 
the tradition of the literary or miscellaneous periodical. (^Of direct in- 
fluence upon the essay, however, they exerted but little. Neither the 
AtheJiian Mercury nor Defoe's Review had much to do with deter- 
mining the character of this genre as it was written in the eighteenth 
century. That role was reserved for two papers which followed shortly 
upon them, appealed to the same general interests, and profited by 
the taste which they had helped to create. 

On April 12, 1709, while the Review was still coming out, there 
appeared the first number of a new journal. The Tatler. In external 
The Tatler form it consisted of a single folio sheet printed on both 
(1709-1711) sides ; and a prospectus at the beginning announced that 
it would be published on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, " for 
the convenience of the post." At first the name of the editor was not 
known. But it was presently whispered about that he was Richard 
Steele, a writer and politician of strong Whig sympathies, who at the 
time was editor of the official government newspaper. The London 
Gazette. As Gazetteer, Steele had access to the latest news, especially 
of foreign affairs — to a great deal, moreover, that he could not use 
in the Gazette itself. This circumstance, combined with the recent 
success of Defoe's " Scandalous Club," had given him the idea of 
publishing a journal of his own that should be at once a newspaper 
and a collection of essays "on miscellaneous subjects. For various 
reasons he did not wish his own name to appear as editor. He there- 
fore announced the Tatler as the work of Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq., 
a benevolent astrologer in whose name Swift had diverted the town 
in a humorous pamphlet controversy of the previous year. 

The prospectus in the first number announced that the Tatler was 



INTRODUCTION xxvii 

to consist of two parts — accounts of news and essays. For a time 
this program was carried out. Until October, 1709, the numbers 
of the paper regularly contained, under the heading of St. James 
Coffee-house, a paragraph of foreign news condensed from the latest 
dispatches from the Continent. After No. 80 (October 13, 1709), 
however, this disappeared as a regular feature and reappeared only 
occasionally thereafter. The essays also appeared from the first. In 
the beginning they were as a rule short, and each number contained 
several. ' Thus in No. 5 there was a discourse on love, a notice of a 
new book, a story of two brave English soldiers, besides several para- 
graphs of news. As time went on, the length of the essays was in- 
creased, and the number ultimately reduced to one to each issue ; 
when the Tatler was discontinued, this had become the usual practice. 

Steele began his periodical entirely by himself ; the plan was his, and 
he wrote the first few numbers without any assistance. With No. 18, 
however, he began to receive help from an old school friend and fellow 
Whig, Joseph Addison, then under-secretary to the Lord Lieutenant 
of Ireland. Addison wrote for the Tatler off and on until its with- 
drawal, contributing in all some forty-one papers and parts of thirty- 
four others, a litde over a third of the total number. At no time did 
he become a dominant influence in the journal. 

The Tatler continued to appear for twenty-one months. Finally, 
on the 2d of January, 17 11, it was suddenly withdrawn, greatly to 
the regret of the large public which had come to welcome its half- 
humorous, half-satirical comment on the life of the day. " Everyone," 
wrote the poet Gay, " wanted so agreeable an amusement, and the 
coffee-houses began to be sensible that the Esquire's Lucubrations 
alone had brought them more customers than all other newspapers 
put together." It was not long, however, before a new periodical 
took its place. 

On March i, 17 11, two months after the cessation of the Tatler, 
appeared the first number of the Spectator, The new paper resembled 
j^g the Tatler in external form, but, unlike the Tatler, it was , 

Spectator published daily, and at no time contained news. A single 
(1711-1712) essay, headed by a Latin or Greek motto, and followed 
by a group of advertisements, made up the contents of each number. 
The editor was announced to be a silent but very observing man 
named Mr. Spectator, who was assisted in his conduct of the paper 



xxviii THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

by a club composed of an old country knight, a lawyer, a merchant, 
a soldier, a man of the world, and a clergyman. The general editorial 
charge of the new periodical was in the hands of Steele. Addison 
was a very frequent contributor, and indeed wrote more essays than 
his friend ; his assistance extended also to the general design of the 
work. A few other persons, such as Addison's cousin Eustace Budgell, 
John Hughes, Henry Grove, and Henry Martin, contributed papers 
occasionally. 

The audience which the Spedatoi' was designed to reach was a 
diversified one. It included persons of quality, students and profes- 
sional men, merchants of the City, and, above all, women. " I take 
it for a particular happiness," wrote Steele in No. 4, '^ that I have 
always had an easy and familiar admittance to the fair sex ... As 
these compose half the world, and are, by the just complaisance and 
gallantry of our nation, the more powerful part of our people, I shall 
dedicate a considerable share of these my speculations to their serv- 
ice, and shall lead the young through all the becoming duties of 
virginity, marriage, and widowhood ... In a word, I shall take it 
for the greatest glory of my work if among reasonable women this 
paper may furnish tea-table talk." 

With this variety of appeal, it is not strange that the new journal 
became popular. Gay wrote in May, 1 7 1 1 , two months after it began 
to appear : '' the Spectator ... is in every one's hand, and a constant 
topic of our morning conversation at tea-tables and coffee-houses."^ 
In August, 1 7 12, when this popularity was at its height, the govern- 
ment imposed on all periodicals a stamp tax of a halfpenny for each 
half-sheet and a shilling a week for each advertisement. As a con- 
sequence, a great many papers went under. For a time the Spectator 
continued to appear, though, as its price was doubled, many of its 
subscribers fell off. But the loss of the subscribers was a less serious 
blow to the paper than the loss of a great number of its advertisers 
as a result of the shilling tax. From this blow it never recovered, and 
was discontinued, with the 555th number, on December 6, 17 12. 

It was in the Tatter and the Spectator, and under the conditions 
imposed by the nature of these papers, that the new essay of the 
eighteenth century had its birth. As was only natural, many of its 

1 For details concerning the circulation of the Spectator, see below, pp. 419— 
420. 



INTRODUCTION xxix 

distinguishing features betrayed clearly the character of its origin. 

Thus, the limits of the single sheet on which the journals were printed 

Effect of restricted the essays to a relatively brief compass ; the 

periodical efforts of the writers to conceal their authorship under the 
publication ... ,. i • ir i • 

on the new names of imaginary editors gave to their seli-revelations 

essay ^n indirect and somewhat dramatic tone ; and the fact 

of periodical publication resulted in the adoption of many devices 
of a purely occasional and journalistic nature, such as letters from 
correspondents, answers to criticisms, references to events of the 
day, and the like. Nor was the influence of the conditions under 
w^hich the new essay was produced confined to these more or less 
external features. Written not as the seventeenth-century essay had 
been for a limited circle of cultured individuals, but for a large and 
growing periodical-reading public with diversified interests and tastes, 
it inevitably took on a popular tone entirely absent from the older 
essay. Finally, as an indirect result of its connection with the peri- 
odicals, the new essay came strongly under the influence of the social 
movement of the time. 

Both Steele and Addison, in numerous passages in the Tatler and 
the Spectator, laid great stress on the didactic character of their 
The influ- undertaking. Steele, in particular, made no secret of his 

ence of the reformatory zeal. '^ I own myself of the Society for 
social move- ^ . ^ ,r ,, i • ^ ,? tvt 

mentonthe Reformation of Manners," he wrote m latter No. 3. 

new essay '' Wg have lower instruments than those of the family of 
Bickerstaff for punishing great crimes and exposing the abandoned. 
Therefore, as I design to have notices from all public assemblies, I 
shall take upon me only indecorums, improprieties, and negligencies, 
in such as should give us better examples. After this declaration, 
if a fine lady thinks fit to giggle at church, or a great beau to 
come in drunk to a play, either shall be sure to hear of it in 
my ensuing paper; for merely as a well-bred man I cannot bear 
these enormities." And again, with perhaps a growing seriousness, 
he declared in No. 39 : ''I am called forth by the immense love I 
bear to my fellow creatures, and the warm inclination I feel within 
me, to stem, as far as I can, the prevailing torrent of vice and igno- 
rance." Addison was scarcely less explicit, though he perhaps 
emphasized more than Steele had done his intention to make his 
teaching agreeable. '' I shall endeavor," he wrote in a famous 



XXX THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

passage in Spectator No. lo, "to enliven morality with wit, and to 
temper wit with morality, that my, readers may, if possible, both ways 
find their account in the speculation of the day. And to the end that 
their virtue and discretion may not be short, transient, intermitting 
starts of thoughts, I have resolved to refresh their memories from 
day to day, till I have recovered them out of that desperate state of 
vice and folly into which the age is fallen. ... I shall be ambitious 
to have it said of me that I have brought philosophy out of closets 
and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, 
at tea-tables and in coffee-houses." 

In thus adopting as the aim of their journals moral and social 
reformation, Steele and Addison were simply placing themselves in 
line with one of the most powerful tendencies of early eighteenth- 
century England — the reaction against the moral license of Resto- 
ration society which came with the rise into prominence and affluence 
of the middle classes. This was not, however, the only way in which 
the social movement affected the periodicals, and through them the 
new essay. By the beginning of the eighteenth century the coffee- 
house had come to be one of the most influential of London institu- 
tions, the center of innumerable discussions on morals, literature, 
politics, society, in which members of the reading public sharpened 
\/ their wits, learned to have opinions of their own on all manner of 
subjects, and acquired a taste for a simple, colloquial, unbookish style 
of speech. The periodicals became in a very real sense the organs 
of this coffee-house world. Their writers were members of it ; they 
reported its conversation, described and sometimes satirized its 
characters, attempted to reform its evil tendencies, and in general 
reflected its spirit and tone. In short, more than any other literary 
form of the eighteenth century, the periodical essay was an outgrowth 
of the London coffee-houses. 

A third group of influences affecting the new essay came from the 

field of literature. Confronted by the problem of promoting moral and 

social reform and at the same time holding the interest of 
Literary in- ,,.,.,.,. 

fluences on a large and heterogeneous public, the periodical writers 

the period- found the somewhat narrow formula of the seventeenth- 
century essay inadequate to their needs. Without aban- 
doning it entirely (Steele, indeed, owed not a little to Cowley, and both 
Bacon and Montaigne continued to have an influence), they looked 



/ 



INTRODUCTION xxxi 

about for new methods and forms that would give to their writing the 
variety and flexibility which both their public and their material required. 
Of the literary forms with which they thus attempted to vivify the 
essay one of the most influential was the " character." The fashion 
The "char- of writing " characters," or descriptive sketches of typical 
acter" personages, had become established in England during 

the early years of the seventeenth century. The event which initi- 
ated the vogue was the publication in 1592 by Isaac Casaubon, a 
celebrated French classical scholar, of a Latin translation of the 
C/iaraders of Theophrastus. Tyrtamus of Lesbos, commonly called 
Theophrastus, was a Greek of the fourth and third centuries B.C. (cir. 
372-cir. 288), one of the most eminent of the disciples of Aristotle. 
The work by which he most affected modern literature consisted of a 
series of twenty-eight descriptions of the various qualities character- 
istic of human beings, such as garrulity, rusticity, newsmongering, 
impudence, superstition, tediousness, pride, timidity. In all these 
descriptions he followed a stereotyped method, first defining the 
quality in general terms, then illustrating this definition by an enu- 
meration of typical actions. Under the influence of Casaubon's 
translation the genre thus conceived became widely popular in seven- 
teenth-century England. The first writer to cultivate it was Bishop 
Joseph Hall, who published in 1608 Charactejs of Vices and Virtues, 
a collection of descriptions of typical personages, each embodying 
some moral quality, good or bad, such as the wise man, the humble 
man, the truly noble, the busybody, the malcontent, the vainglori- 
ous. Other collections followed. In 1614 appeared the "characters" 
ascribed to Sir Thomas Overbuiy, the subjects of which were some- 
what more concrete than those of Hall, and included, in addition to 
moral qualities, social and national types. Another character-book of 
the same period was John Earle's Microcosmographie, or a Piece of the 
World Discove7'ed in Essays and Characters, first issued in 1628 and 
frequently republished during the next fifty years. Earle's subjects 
were similar for the most part to those of the Overbury collection : 
he wrote of the " young raw preacher," of the " grave divine," of the 
" mere young gentleman of the university," of the " mere gull cit- 
izen," of the " plain country fellow." Numerous other collections of 
the same type made their appearance during the second half of the 
seventeenth century. 



xxxii THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Two features distinguished all of these attempts at character- 
writing : first, the human types they represented, whether ethical, 
social, or national, were but slightly individualized ; and second, as 
compositions they formed an independent literary species, allied to 
the essay but seldom combined with it. It remained for a French 
writer of the latter part of the century at once to individualize the 
" character" and to combine it organically with the essay. In 1688, 
at the end of a new translation of Theophrastus, Jean La Bruyere 
(i 645-1 696) published a series of short chapters called collectively Les 
Caractb'es, on les Moeui's de ce Steele} Each of these chapters treated 
some moral question or some phase of the social life of the time — 
personal merit, women, society and conversation, the city, the court, 
the nobility, judgments, fashion, man in general. In the first edition 
the essay element predominated : the chapters were very largely made 
up of general reflections, stated succinctly and without transitional 
phrases, in the form of maxims. Here and there, however, between 
two groups of maxims, appeared brief " characters " or portraits of 
representative individuals, each designated by a name of Latin or 
Greek origin, as, for example, Cleante, Sosie, Cresus, Narcisse. In 
later editions, while the reflections remained, the portraits greatly 
increased in number. They took various forms — descriptions, anec- 
dotes, dialogues, typical narratives. Whatever the form, they had one 
feature in common — they were all thoroughly individualized. Not 
merely by the use of names, but^ by the inclusion of concrete detail 
of all kinds, La Bruyere succeeded in giving the impression that his 
portraits, while representative of a class, were none the less portraits 
of real persons. 

To the writers of the Taller and the Spectator, intent on a concrete 
presentation of the life around them, the generalized " characters " of 
the type of Overbury's and Earle's made less of an appeal than the 
individualized character-essays of La Bruyere. Steele, in particular, 
found Les Caraderes a congenial work, and made no secret of his 
intention to imitate it.^ 

The " character," though perhaps the most influential, was not the 
only literary form from which the periodical writers took suggestions 
for the new essay. They learned much from the wTitings of earlier 

2 An English translation appeared in 1699. 
8 See Tatler No. 9. 



INTRODUCTION xxxiii 

and contemporary literary critics, notably the Englishman Dryden 

and the Frenchman Saint-J^vremond. They adapted to their uses 

Other liter- the popular genre of the epistle as it had been developed 

ary forms ^^ England in the middle of the seventeenth century by 

contributory 

to the new such v^riters as James Howell and Robert Loveday and 

essay later applied to purposes of journalism by the editors of 

the Athenian Mercury. They showed themselves close students of 

the literature of visions and allegories, ancient and modern, from 

Plato to Edmund Spenser. They took hints of subject and style 

from the collections of oriental stories that were beginning, in the 

early eighteenth century, to penetrate into western Europe. They 

borrowed not a little in the way of method from the contemporary 

French novelists. 

Such were the varied influences under which Steele and Addison 
created and brought to perfection the periodical essay. Steele led the 
The roles of way : his was the design of the Tatler and, in part at 
Steele and least, of the Spectator ; his were the first rough sketches 
the develop- ^^ nearly all the types of papers which appeared in the 
mentofthe two journals. But though more original than his associ- 
centurv" " ^^^ ^^^ possessed of greater moral fervor and power of 
essay touching the feelings of his readers, he was less system- 

atic, less scholarly, less subtly humorous ; and it remained for Addi- 
\ son to exhibit the full possibilities of many lines of thought and 
many artistic devices which he had merely suggested. However, the 
collaboration between the two men was ever close, and the essays 
which they wrote possessed numerous characteristics in common. 

To a reader familiar with Montaigne, Bacon, or Cowley, the essays 

of Addison and Steele, while presenting some traditional features, 

must have seemed on the whole a new species. They 
Distinguish- ^ , 

ing features were as a rule shorter than the essays of the seventeenth 

of the new century and, what was perhaps even more striking, all 

of uniform or nearly uniform length. In character they 

were more occasional, more satirical, more social and citified, and 

a great deal less bookish ; all in all, too, as compared with the 

work of Montaigne and Cowley, they were less intimately and 

directly personal. But, most of all, they exhibited a variety 

of subject and method quite unapproached by the essayists of the 

preceding century. 



xxxiv THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

The themes treated in the Tatle?- and Spectator essays belonged in 

general to two main classes, both of which were in a measure dictated 

by the program of social reform for which the periodicals 

^™ stood. Addison in Spectator 435 clearly indicated this divi- 

sion. '' Most of the papers I give the public," he said, " are written 
on subjects that never vary, but are forever fixed and immutable. Of 
this kind are all my more serious essays and discourses ; but there is 
another sort of speculations, which I consider as occasional papers, 
that take their rise from the folly, extravagance, and caprice of the 
present age." Among the '' fixed and imm.utable " subjects naturally 
appeared many of the themes of the older essayists : modesty, the 
government of the passions, fame, love, immortality, the vanity of 
ambition, conversation, friendship, honor, education, marriage, cheer- 
fulness, hypocrisy, the enjoyments of a country life, faith. To this 
group belonged also such general literary subjects as humor, wit, 
taste, and the pleasures of the imagination. More distinctive of the 
spirit and aims of the new essay were the themes of the second class 
— those which inspired the '' occasional papers." They included the 
whole range of contemporary social life, though, as was only natural, 
the emphasis fell on interests and customs especially characteristic of 
London. The absurdities of the Italian opera, the practice of the duel, 
the habit of taking snuff, the puppet-show, the lottery, the reading of 
newspapers, fashionable slang, the Midnight Masquerade, coffee- 
houses, " party-patches," the belief in witchcraft, the hoop-petticoat, 
the effect of the war on the English language, the street-cries of 
London, pin-money, the occupations of a young lady of fashion, the 
Mohocks — all these furnished material for kindly satirical essays 
which, though somewhat less numerous than the speculations on 
abstract subjects, were perhaps more popular with contemporary 
readers. Both groups of papers were pervaded by a common spirit — 
a spirit earnest and didactic, to be sure, and not particularly personal, 
but always urbane, and lightened when the subject demanded by 
touches of quiet humor. 

The same variety which characterized the subject matter of the 
new essay appeared also in its form. The essay of the seventeenth 
century had been a relatively simple compound of three elements — 
general reflections, " examples " and " sentences " from books, and 
personal observations or reminiscences. To these familiar elements 



INTRODUCTION xxxv 

the essayists who wrote for the Tatler and the Spectator added 
several others — tales of real life, elaborate classical and oriental 
Types of allegories, letters and diaries of correspondents, typical 
essays moral and social " characters," reports of the conver- 

sation of London coffee-houses and tea-tables. The result was that, 
instead of papers constructed more or less on the same pattern, they 
were able to give their readers a considerable number of distinct 
types of essays. 

They Avere particularly fond of what Addison called '' papers of 
morality," that is to say, discourses devoted primarily to the exposition 
Moralizing of some general ethical principle or quality, such as mod- 
essays esty, cheerfulness, hypocrisy, affectation. In writing them 
they followed no single method ; sometimes they developed their 
central theme in a formal, orderly way, with illustrations from the 
classics, the Scriptures, or the more serious modern authors ; some- 
times they contented themselves with simply suggesting, in para- 
graphs devoid of concrete detail, a few of its significant phases. Their 
models, so far as they were dependent upon any, were to be found 
in part among the writings of the earlier essayists — Bacon in partic- 
ular furnished them many hints of method — and in part among the 
sermons of the great English divines of the preceding generation. 

Many of the features of the " papers of morality " characterized 
also another type of essays much cultivated in the periodicals — 
Critical essays in literary criticism. These were of two classes, 

essays according as the starting point was a general literary 

idea or a particular work. Both classes were marked by like quali- 
ties of composition — great explicitness of plan, ample illustration, 
and abundant generalization. 

A third type of paper, somewhat less abstract than these two, in- 
cluded essays made up of general reflections interspersed with " char- 
Character acters." This type was peculiarly Steele's ; whenever, 
essays from early in the Tatler to the end of the Spectator^ 

he had occasion to treat of the broader aspects of social life — types 
of character, good breeding, conversation — it was in this mold 
that he tended to cast his thought. As in the model of the genre, 
Les Caraderes of La Bruyere, the function of the '' characters " 
was primarily illustrative. They were embedded in the reflections, 
sometimes one in an essay, sometimes several. Iri manner, too, they 



xxxvi THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

owed much to La Bruyere. All his favorite devices of exposition 
— dialogue, apostrophe, description, narrative — reappeared in the 
work of Steele and his imitators. Even the names were largely of the 
same type. For a few characters who bore English names, such as 
Will Nice, Tom Folio, Ned Softly, there were numerous others — 
Clarissa, Nobilis, Senecio, Urbanus, Flavia, Eusebius — who clearly 
belonged with La Bruyere's Romans and Greeks. Such, in general, 
were the typical character-essays of the Tatler and the Spectator. In 
addition there were a few others, such as the account of the club at 
the Trumpet and the description of Mr. Spectator's friends, in which 
the portraits were presented for their own sake, independently of 
any general ideas they might serve to illustrate. But papers of this 
sort appeared too infrequently to constitute a separate type. 

Sometimes, again, the essayist, instead of pointing his moral with a 
'' character," employed for the same purpose an incident or scene 
Anecdotal from his observation of the life around him. Thus, 
essays Addison, who perhaps made most use of the device, 

introduced his remarks on popular superstitions in Spectator 7 with 
an account of a conversation at a friend's dinner table. In this case 
the anecdote preceded the reflections, which were represented as 
rising naturally out of it ; in other cases the order was reversed. 
Whatever the order, the moral of the essay commonly appeared as 
subsidiary to the concrete happening which started the essayist's 
train of thought. 

Still another group of essays was made up of those containing 
letters from correspondents, real or imaginary. This type, a favor- 
Letter ite with all contributors, flourished in several varieties, 
essays Sometimes the essayist presented his correspondent's 
words without comment ; sometimes he added remarks of his own, 
intended to supplement or enforce the point of the letter. In many 
cases one letter only was given ; in others the paper contained sev- 
eral, all perhaps dealing with different subjects. Nor were the letters 
themselves all of the same pattern. Some were sketches of character, 
others were requests for advice, still others were narratives of real 
life or satirical accounts of contemporary fashions and conditions. 

Finally, the Tatler and the Spectator contained a great many 
essays of a type predominantly narrative. Some, perhaps most, of 
these dealt with simple incidents of everyday life set in a background 



INTRODUCTION xxxvii 

of contemporary manners. Such, for example, were the accounts of 
Jenny Distaff's love affair and marriage, and the story of Orlando, 
Narrative in the Tatler \ and the narratives of Mr. Spectator's 
essays yisit to Sir Roger de Coverley's country place and of 

the old knight's return journey to London, in the Spectator. For 
the most part in these narrative papers the element of moralizing 
was slight, though it was nearly always present ; and the interest of 
the essays for both writers and readers lay in their faithful pictures 
of the habits and acts of ordinary English people. Not all of the 
narratives in the periodicals, however, were of this realistic sort. 
With the serious-minded readers of the early eighteenth century 
few essays enjoyed a greater vogue than those cast in the form of 
visions or oriental allegories. Steele experimented with this type in 
one or two papers early in the Tatler\ but it remained for Addison 
to develop it into a finished medium for the expression of moral 
and religious ideas. 

These, then, were some of the typical forms into which the writers 
for the Tatlei- and the Spectator cast their ethical teaching and their 
critical comment on the life of the day. They were not, however, 
always content to limit themselves to these main types. On the con- 
trary, they never ceased to invent new devices, which they employed 
perhaps no more than once or twice and then completely neglected. 
To this class of special essays belonged, in the Tatler., the papers on 
the Court of Honor, on the adventures of a shilling, and on frozen 
words ; in the Spectator., the journal of the Indian kings, the anatomy 
of the coquette's heart, the diary of Clarinda, the minutes of the 
Everlasting Club, and the account of Pug the Monkey. Taken all 
together they furnished a striking manifestation of the diversity of 
method and device which the new conditions of publication made 
characteristic of the essay. 

When the daily issue of the Spectator came to an end in December, 

17 12, the eighteenth-century essay in all its varieties was fully formed. 

_ Thenceforward for over a hundred years the history of 

The later his- , ^ .,. . ^ , , , 1 • r 1 

tory of the the familiar essay m England was the history 01 the 

periodical imitations made of this fixed and established type. Many, 
perhaps most, of these imitations appeared in single- 
sheet journals modeled closely on the Tatler\ by 1809 no less than 220 
such periodicals had seen the light in London and other cities of the 



xxxviii THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

British Isles. Of the early ventures of this type the most notable were 
the Guardian (17 13), edited by Steele and written by him in conjunc- 
tion with Addison, Pope, and others, and the revived Spectator {\^\^^ 
the work almost entirely of Addison. Then for a number of years 
the single-sheet papers took on a prevailingly political character, the 
reflection in large measure of the bitter party strife which raged 
under the first two Georges ; and familiar essays, though they con- 
tinued to appear, became almost swamped under the stream of purely 
controversial writing. Toward the middle of the century, however, 
journals of a more general nature again came into vogue. The 
Champion (1739-1741), a semi-political paper to which the chief 
contributor was Henry Fielding, was followed by the Rambler 
(1750-1752), a strictly literary production, written almost entirely 
by Dr. Johnson; the Cove?it- Garden Journal {\']s,2), another enter- 
prise of Fielding's ; the Adventurer (i 752-1 754), a journal edited by 
John Hawkesworth with the aid of Johnson; the World (1753- 
1756); the Connoisseur {\']t^\-\']t^(i)\ \S\q Bee (1759); the MiiTor 
(1779-1780); the Lounger (1785-1787); the Obsen'er (1785- 
1790) ; and numerous others to the end of the century. But journals 
of this sort were not the only repositories in which the imitators 
of Addison and Steele published their works. Many essays of the 
Tatler and Spectator type appeared in the somewhat restricted columns 
of the daily and weekly newspapers ; it was in a newspaper, for 
example, that Johnson printed his Idler papers, and Goldsmith his 
Letters froin a Citizen of the World. Many also appeared in the 
monthly magazines which in constantly increasing numbers followed 
in the wake of the successful Gentleman'' s Magazine (founded 1731). 
And a few writers resorted to the practice, universal in the seven- 
teenth century, of publishing essays for the first time in volumes. To 
this last class belonged Vicesimus Knox, whose Essays Moral and 
Literary (177 8- 177 9) revealed a marked admiration for the great 
masters of the periodical form. 

Of the many essayists who in the middle and later years of the 
eighteenth century carried on the traditions of Addison and Steele, 
two won in a peculiar measure the admiration of their contemporaries 
— Samuel Johnson and Oliver Goldsmith. 

Johnson's career as a familiar essayist fell entirely within the 
decade of the fifties. In 1750 he began to publish the Rambler^ a 



INTRODUCTION xxxix 

paper of the type of the Tatler and the Spectator-^ it ran until 1752, 
and though only moderately successful when first issued, took its 
Samuel place as one of the standard essay-collections of the cen- 

Johnson tury when reprinted in volumes. Between 1752 and 1754 

(1709-1784) j^g contributed a number of papers to Hawkesworth's 
Adventurer^ and in 1758 he started in a weekly newspaper a series 
of essays entitled The Idler, which continued to appear during two 
years. In all of these ventures Johnson's aims closely resembled 
those of the great essayists of the beginning of the century. The 
name '^ periodical mentor," which he frequently applied to himself, 
exactly expressed the spirit and purpose of his work ; he wrote pri- 
marily to satirize and correct. In his methods of composition, too, he 
approved himself a faithful follower of Addison and Steele, writing 
" papers of morality," oriental apologues, sketches of domestic life, 
character-essays, criticisms, letters, with little if any deviation from 
the model which they had set. Only in two respects, indeed, did his 
practice differ markedly from theirs. For one thing, though he did 
not entirely withhold his satire from the lighter aspects of social life, 
— witness the letter in the Rambler from the young lady who found 
country life a bore, and the Dick Minim papers in the Idler, — still 
his preference was for subjects of a serious moral and religious 
import — abstraction and self-examination, patience, the folly of 
anticipating misfortunes. Again, the style in which he clothed his 
thoughts, especially in the Rambler, drew little of its inspiration from 
the polished but colloquial English of the Tatler and the Spectator. 
Though he was to write, in The lives of the Poets, perhaps the most 
sympathetic appreciation of the qualities of Addison's style which the 
eighteenth century produced, in his own work he strove for a stateli- 
ness and balance of rhythm and a Latinized dignity of vocabulary 
quite remote from the simplicity and ease of his predecessor. 

Goldsmith appeared before the public as an essayist almost a 
decade later than Johnson. He began to contribute to the Monthly 
Oliver Review and other periodicals in 1757, but his charac- 

Goldsmith teristic manner first became manifest in a number of 
(1728-1774) miscellaneous papers which he wrote in 1759 for a short- 
lived journal called The Bee. In 1760 and 1761 he contributed to 
the Public ledger a series of 123 letters purporting to be written by 
a philosophical Chinaman sojourning in England, which were later 



xl THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

reprinted under the title of The Citizen of the World.'^ These letters 
constituted his most extensive and elaborate excursion into the field 
of the essay. With the exception of a collected edition of his various 
papers which appeared in 1765, they were also his last publication in 
that genre. 

Goldsmith developed quite another side of his inheritance from the 
earlier essayists than did Johnson — the side of humor and social satire. 
He did not, to be sure, altogether neglect serious themes. Among 
his essays were numerous papers of literary criticism, a few general 
ethical discussions, and at least one oriental allegory — the story of 
Asem — the moral of which was quite as weighty as that of any 
similar production of Addison or Johnson. But these were not his 
favorite or most characteristic subjects. It was when he was recording 
his own or his Chinese traveler's opinions on the English passion for 
politics and newspapers, on the quack doctors of London, on the 
length of ladies' trains, on gambling among women, on the races 
at Newmarket, on the manners of fashionable shopkeepers, on the 
pride and luxury of the middle class, or picturing domestic life in 
the manner of Steele, or creating fantasies that Addison might have 
envied, that his true genius as an essayist appeared most clearly. 
And his manner was perfectly suited to his substance — in its 
simple diction and constructions and its conversational tone the 
direct antithesis of the manner of Johnson. 

The type of essay established in the Tatler and the Spectator^ and 

cultivated in a host of imitations throughout the eighteenth century. 

The survival persisted in full vigor in the early years of the nineteenth. 

of the peri- Its survival was especially marked in such magazines of 

ica essay ^^ period as the Ge7itleman''s and the Eiwopeafi. In the 
in the early ^ -^ 

nineteenth former, for example, from January, 1802, to November, 
century 1809, there appeared regularly a series of essays in the 

manner of the Spectator under the general title of The Projector. 
After the latter date this series was apparently crowded out by the 

* The method employed in these essays was by no means a new one. Used 
by Addison in Spectator 50, it had become especially popular after the pub- 
lication in 1 72 1 of Montesquieu's Lettres persanes, translated into English in 
1735 ^s Persian Letters. In 1757, three years before Goldsmith began his 
series of essays in the Public Ledger^ Horace Walpole published a Letter from 
Xo Ho, a Chinese Philosopher at London^ to his Friend Lien Chi at Peking. 



INTRODUCTION xli 

growing pressure of miscellaneous contributions from correspondents ; 
no reason, however, was given for its somewhat sudden discontin- 
uance, and it seems to have been popular to the last. In the 
Europea7i Magazine essays of the eighteenth-century type were 
published regularly and in considerable numbers for at least twenty 
years after the opening of the century. Thus the issue for August, 
1800, had an '' Essay on Fashion," manifestly modeled on the moral- 
izing papers of the Rambler \ and the numbers for November and 
December contained each an " Essay after the Manner of Goldsmith." 
Between January and June, 1805, imitations of Johnson were partic- 
ularly numerous, two in the January number being described as " by 
the author of the 'Essays after the Manner of Goldsmith'"; while 
from April to November of the same year a series called The Jester 
carried on the lighter traditions of the Spectator, with all the para- 
phernalia of correspondents and characters invented for illustration. 
In the numbers for July to December, 181 1, the essays were about 
evenly divided between imitations of the Spectator and heavier imita- 
tions of the Rainbler. Nor was this the end. For at least another ten 
years essays on the model of one or another of the great eighteenth- 
century writers continued to appear in the European — contributors 
who affected lightness and cleverness following Addison or Gold- 
smith, those who were oppressed with the seriousness of life finding 
their inspiration in Dr. Johnson. 

III. THE NEW MAGAZINE ESSAY OF THE NINETEENTH 

CENTURY 

Within the early years of the nineteenth century the type of 
familiar essay was developed which has continued to the present. By 
1825 it had largely supplanted the imitations of the Tatler and 
Spectator, and Lamb, Hunt; Hazlitt, De Quincey, and other writers 
had won for it a popularity that the essay had not enjoyed for a long 
time. The new type differed from the old in many essential respects. 

In the first place, the new essay had a much wider range of sub- 
ject than the old. It was no longer confined largely to " the Town," 
to the fashions and foibles of society, to problems of conduct and 
manners, or to the general principles of morality. There was, indeed, 
no general uniformity of topic. Each essayist wrote upon whatever 



xlii THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

presented itself to him as an attractive or congenial theme ; his range 

of subject was determined only by the breadth or narrowness of his 

individual interests and sympathies. Lamb wrote of his 
Wide range r i • i -i .• i • 

of subject of schoolboy liie, oi his daily occupations, his vacation 

the new excursions, his friends and his family, his personal sym- 

pathies and antipathies ; Leigh Hunt chatted about his 
reading, his fireside comforts, the interesting individuals or types he 
had observed or experiences he had encountered, or tried to discover 
compensation for the deaths of little children ; Hazlitt lingered over 
his books or recalled his first meeting with poets later famous, 
recounted the delights of a solitary tramp in the open country and 
the evening comforts of an inn, presented the pleasures of painting 
or of hating, or considered the basis of his deepest feelings ; De 
Quincey gossiped of his acquaintances or recalled gorgeous or 
terrible dream fancies. As many writers of the new essay, including 
Lamb and Hunt and Hazlitt, spent their most active years in London, 
they frequently, of course, wrote on some aspect of London life, 
but their subjects included such as had been in large measure 
beneath the sympathetic regard of the eighteenth-century essayists — 
chimney sweeps, the postman, clerks, artisans, and sailors. 

In manner of presentation and purpose, too, the new essay was 
markedly different from the old. One of the most characteristic dif- 
Directness ferences is that the essayist no longer, hid his individuality 
and Individ- behind the elaborately sustained figure of an invented 
the new Mr. Bickerstaff, or Mr. Spectator, or Chinese Traveler, 

essay but v/rote in his ov/n person. Even when through diffi- 

dence he employed the editorial plural or adopted a pen-name, he 
really expressed his own personality, and his thin disguise was easily 
penetrable. Many other long-used conventions were almost wholly 
discarded ; for example, the machinery of clubs and correspondents, 
the visions and apologues, and the invented characters with classical 
or pseudo-classical names. The classics, too, and classical history 
were less drawn upon for mottoes and quotations and illustrations. 
In general, -there was much less artificiality and much greater direct- 
ness, and a strong tendency to rely for illustration upon the personal 
experience of the writer or of his acquaintances, upon contemporary 
events or those of comparatively recent history, and upon modern or 
native literature. Nor, as a rule, was the new essay marked by the 



INTRODUCTION xliii 

satiric or didactic tone that generally pervaded the old. The eight- 
eenth-century essay was largely social in character, and professed as 
its principal aim a reformation of the delinquencies and peccadillos of 
society. The new essay was just as distinctly individualistic ; as a liter- 
ary form it was not the vehicle of any propaganda. The character of 
each essayist's work as a whole was determined purely by his peculiar 
temperament, and any single essay might reflect his mood of a moment 
or the deeply grounded philosophy of his lifetime. The one property 
common to the essayists of the early nineteenth century is their ego- 
tism ; they were chiefly interested in themselves, and were frank, 
though by no means offensively so, in the expression of this inter- 
est. This frankness of egotism, however, is characteristic of the 
period rather than of the literary type, although, of course, a strongly 
personal coloring is never absent from the familiar essay of the 
nineteenth century. 

Of all the differences between the essay of the eighteenth century 
and that of the nineteenth, the most obvious is the much greater length 
of the latter. As the content of a piece of writing is largely 
length of dependent upon the space it is to occupy, the greater 
the new length of the new essay is one of its essential character- 

istics. The eighteenth-century essay had space for only 
sketches and outlines or for the treatment of a very limited phase of 
a subject ; the new essay could present full-length portraits or the 
development of ample themes, and it invited digression. The Tatler 
and Spectator papers, from their mode of publication and the temper 
of the particular reading public to whom they were directed, were 
very brief, ranging from about twelve hundred to fifteen hundred 
words each, and in this respect, as in others, they were followed by 
their imitators. Of the founders of the new essay, Leigh Hunt most 
closely resembled the writers of the preceding century in brevity ; 
probably in part because of his temperament, and in part because, 
like the earlier essayists, he wrote principally for newspapers or for 
periodicals modeled upon the Tatler. Lamb was between the old and 
the new, the Essays of Elia averaging from one and a half to two times 
the length of the eighteenth-century periodical essay. The greater 
number of Hazlitt's essays were three or four times as long as those 
of the Spectator type ; in this, as in so many other respects, they were 
wholly of the new order. Even within such expanded limits De Quincey 



xliv THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

was unable to confine himself, and some of his papers were inordi- 
nately long. Naturally, there cannot be any definitely fixed length for 
the essay, but so far as there is any standard, that set by Hazlitt be- 
came generally observed and is now usually followed. It permits the 
writer to treat his theme with reasonable fullness, but checks a pres- 
entation that would tax the capacity of the reader at a single sitting. 

The changed character of the essay was the effect of a number of 
causes. The first was the progress of Romanticism, which, by 1820, 
Causes of throughout the world of literature had resulted in the 
the change expression of new interests or of those long dormant, — 
character of particularly the interest the individual felt in himself, — 
the essay jn the abandonment of old standards and conventions, 
and in experimentation with new or long-disused forms. Individualism 
had been strongly stimulated. The essayists were moved by the same 
forces as the poets. Indeed, in practically all essentials there is a 
manifest similarity between the new poetry and the new essay. The 
second cause is closely related to the first : the new forces in life and 
literature affected men of original and responsive genius, capable of 
developing a new type of essay, and by the success of their own 
efforts influential in establishing it in popular favor. The services of 
Lamb and Hunt and Hazlitt are exactly comparable to those of 
Wordsworth and Byron and Keats. A less general and somewhat 
more tangible influence was the greatly heightened interest in 
Montaigne. His Essais, in Cotton's translation, was one of the 
small stock of books identified as certainly belonging to Lamb ; he 
was quoted or appreciatively referred to several times by Leigh 
Hunt; and Hazlitt was thoroughly familiar with the Essais and a 
consistent admirer of both their matter and their manner. 

But the single factor of greatest moment in the development of the 

new type was the establishment of the modern literary magazine. At 

the beginning of the nineteenth century, publication of 

ment of mod- essays as independent periodicals after the fashion of the 

em literary Tatler and the Spectator had largely given way to publica- 

magazines . . . • ^1 • 1 i n 

tion m newspapers and magazmes. Obviously, the small 

news sheets could not provide space for any considerable expansion 

of the essay, which, moreover, was merely an excrescent growth upon 

them. Nor did the existing magazines, such as the GentlemarCs and 

the European, offer much greater possibilities. They were literally 



INTRODUCTION xlv 

magazines, overcrowded depositories of miscellaneous matter — mete- 
orological data, tables of the values of stocks, parliamentary reports, 
records of births and deaths, cursory reviews, notes of the stage and 
the arts, letters from correspondents and answers to them, and curi- 
ous information on a variety of topics. Literature was usually repre- 
sented in a small section devoted to whatever of essays, sketches, 
verse, etc. the editor needed to fill out his ninety-odd pages, or had 
not the heart to reject. Rarely did a number of one of the old maga- 
zines have a single article of genuine literary merit or interest. And 
the critical reviews were even more hopelessly dull and wanting in 
originality. Both classes of periodicals were almost wholly the product 
of amateurs or of poorly paid drudges. 

Vivification of the literary periodical first manifested itself in the 
critical reviews with the establishment of the Edi7ilmrgh Revieiv in 
1802 and the Quartei'Iy Review in 1809, the former a Whig, the 
latter a Tory organ. From the first the rivalry between them was 
intense ; and the liberal payments to contributors soon attracted to 
each a group of vigorous young writers, whose pronouncements 
upon the social, political, and literary questions of the day, whatever 
they lacked in depth and poise, certainly wanted nothing in assur- 
ance and energy. Both the Edinburgh and the Qiiatierly became 
immediately and dominantly popular. 

The first notable effort to establish a distinctly literary magazine 
was made by Leigh Hunt in the Reflector (1811-1812). Lack of 
financial support, however, and other causes not now known made the 
venture abortive. But only a few years later the first modern maga- 
zine was actually founded. The success of the new reviews prompted 
William Blackwood, an active and astute Edinburgh publisher, to set 
up a magazine which should be equally different from the dull and 
characterless miscellanies then in existence. He was unfortunate, 
however, in the first selection of his staff, and the initial number of 
Blackwood'' s Magazine^ which appeared in April, 181 7, gave no real 
promise of originality or increased attractiveness. But with the 
October number John Wilson ('' Christopher North "), together with 
Lockhart, joined Blackwood's forces ; and the former, particularly, im- 
parted to the magazine a character derived from his own freshness 
and high spirits. Almost instantly Blackwood^s leaped into a more 
than local popularity. 



xlvi THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

The success of Blacktvood's encouraged the establishment of the 
first magazine of similar character in London. This was the London 
Magazine^ the initial number of which appeared in January, 1820. 
Its first editor, John Scott, was apparently given a free hand by the 
owners ; he, in turn, threw open the pages of the London to good 
writing on almost any subject and paid for it liberally. As a result of 
this policy the London commanded the pens of original and attractive 
writers and from the beginning was of interest and high standing. 
After the death of Scott in a duel, rapid changes in the control of the 
magazine ensued, the result of which was a swift descent in its for- 
tunes. But it had shown the way to success and had set up a new 
standard for magazines. The conduct of the New Monthly Magazine 
illustrates the force of the example set by the Lo?ido7i. The Neiv 
Monthly^ which was founded in 18 14, during the first seven years of 
its existence was distinguished in no vital respect from the older mis- 
cellanies. In 1820, however, the popularity of the Lo7ido?i forced a 
change of policy : it was placed under the editorship of Campbell, the 
poet, and inaugurating a new series with the first number for 182 1, it 
became of the new order. Within a few more years many magazines 
of the older type had disappeared and very much the kind of maga- 
zine we know to-day had become definitely established. 

Probably the most obvious contribution of the modern magazine to 

the development of the essay was the encouragement to expansion 

Obligations beyond the former narrow limits, an expansion impossible 

of the new -^^ ^^ newspapers or in the older magazines, divided 
essay to the , \^ , ■, , .n, 

modern as they were into numerous crowded departments. Ihe 

magazine new magazines, unburdened with the traditions that ham- 
pered the old, and thus excluding much of the journalistic matter 
appearing in their predecessors, were able to provide not merely a 
page or two for an essay, but six or eight, and on occasion, ten 
or twelve or twenty pages. They thus made possible the changed 
content and manner of the essay, which could result only from an 
enlargement of its physical limits. 

But increased length and all that goes with it was not the only in- 
debtedness of the new essay to the new magazine. Blackwood s and 
the London could make a place for themselves only by being different 
from the long-established magazines, by surpassing them in literary 
interest and attractiveness ; their editors and owners accordingly vied 



INTRODUCTION xlvii 

with one another in offering inducements to writers of original power, 
paying them with hitherto unexampled liberality and leaving them free 
to write as their own genius might direct. Finally, the very fact that 
these magazines were new, that they were unfettered by hampering 
precedents, was in itself a strong incentive to break away from ex- 
isting conventions and to test new forms and modes. Lamb, Hunt, 
Hazlitt, Wilson, and De Quincey are chief among the founders of 
the new essay ; though Hunt, the least modern of the group, owed 
comparatively little to the new magazines, even he departed from 
his eighteenth-century models for the first time in the Reflectory and 
Blackwood' s produced Wilson's sketches, and the London stimulated 
Lamb, Hazlitt, and De Quincey to discover their peculiar genius and 
to give it expression. Extremely significant is the fact that the great 
body of familiar essays produced within the last century has been 
written for the modern magazine, the direct successor of Blackwood s 
and the London. 

During the period within which the new essay was established 
Lamb, Hunt, and Hazlitt were the most notable writers — notable 
for their relations to the older type or for their influence upon the 
development of the new, as well as for the permanent interest and 
attractiveness of their writings. 

Lamb's first essay, " The Londoner," was printed in the Morning _ 
Post for February i, 1802. " The Londoner " promised to be the first 
Charles ^^ ^ series, but the promise was not carried out, and Lamb 

Lamb wrote no other essays until the establishment of Leigh 

(1775-1834) Jaunt's Reflector. To the four issues of this magazine, 
which appeared probably in 1811-1812, he contributed a number of 
short essays as well as two important critical papers. Consequent 
upon the death of the Reflector was a period of scant productivity, 
which lasted until the appearance of the London Magazine in 1820. 
Lamb's first contribution to this magazine, " The South Sea House," 
appeared in the number for August, 1820; his last, " Stage Illusion," 
in that for August, 1825. Between these two dates, writing over the 
pen-name " Elia," which he had appropriated from an Italian fellow 
clerk of the South Sea House, Lamb published in the London practi- 
cally all his most characteristic essays. After 1820 he wrote but little 
except for the London, and after 1826 he practically ceased writing at 
all, his only considerable papers being three or four for the ephemeral 



xlviii THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Englishma7i' s Magazi?ie in 1831. Collections of Lamb's essays were 
made three times before his death in 1834: his Works (18 18) con- 
tained most of his earlier pieces, and the Essays of Elia (1823) and 
the Last Essays of Elia (1833) included most of his contributions to 
the Londo?i as well as a few of both his earlier and his later papers. 

Lamb's earlier essays were written under the influence of the long- 
established models. His first venture, " The Londoner," was obviously 
imitative, owing much in particular to the first number of the 
Spectator \ and most of his brief papers in the Reflector were con- 
siderably indebted to the seventeenth-century " character " or to the 
Tatler and its successors.^ Moreover, even in the period of Lamb's 
most thoroughly original work, when Elia was doing much to 
establish the new type of familiar essay, he at times reverted to the 
manner of the old : the first part of '' Poor Relations " is patterned 
after the seventeenth-century '' character " ; the first part of " The 
Wedding " is wholly in the manner of Steele's sketches of domestic 
life ; and " A Vision of Horns," one of the Essays of Elia not re- 
printed by Lamb, he himself characterized as " resembling the most 
laboured papers in the Spectator. ^^ 

But by far the greater number of the Elia essays were no more 
imitative than they are imitable ; they were wholly original and the 
expression of Lamb's own personality. They were the very perfec- 
tion of that kind of intimate writing which wins not merely interest 
for itself but affection for the writer. The content of these essays 
was varied. A few were playful fantasies, a few were serious 
musings ; a small number presented Lamb's satirical observation and 
comment upon incongruities of conduct, a larger number, his humor- 
ous observation of incident and character ; and seven or eight were 
critical papers on books and the stage. In almost every one of 
these papers, even those professedly critical, Lamb's personality was 
warmly reflected, and by far the greater number of his essays were 
undisguised autobiography and reminiscence, written in the first 
person. They recorded ingenuously his sympathies and his prejudices, 

1 Something of the nature of the relationship between Lamb's early papers 
and the eighteenth-century periodical essay will appear from an examination 
of " A Bachelor's Complaint of the Behaviour of Married People," which 
appeared first in the Refecior 2ind was later reprinted with some changes as an 
Elia essay. 



INTRODUCTION xlix 

presented him and his family and his friends, disclosed his habits, and 
unveiled his memories. They formed almost a complete record of his 
life, together with an intimate and candid commentary upon it. In 
them appeared his tenderness and manliness, his tolerance of every- 
thing but pretence and priggishness and complacent stupidity, his 
intensely social nature, his liking for people with some harmless 
idiosyncrasy, his keen observation of the unexpected hidden amid the 
commonplace, his devotion to his old folios, and his half-humorous, 
half-pathetic attitude toward life. 

Lamb's most fundamental characteristic was his humor — tender, 
playful, fantastic, never bitter, usually warming the reader's feeling 
or flashing a glimpse of a truth hitherto unconsidered. Very fre- 
quently the vehicle of this humor was a comparison startlingly 
unexpected, but perfectly appropriate and owing much of its happi- 
ness of effect to a suggestion of incongruity. The illustrative or 
figurative half of such a comparison was usually drawn from Lamb's 
familiar acquaintance with English literature of the late sixteenth and 
the seventeenth century — Shakespeare and the Elizabethan dram- 
atists, Milton and Marvell, Burton and Browne and Fuller, and the 
Bible. From the same sources came the abundance of allusion that 
enriched every page, and the choice of word and turn of phrase that 
gave to his diction its archaic flavor. The result was not the affecta- 
tion and artificiality that might have been expected, but what Lamb 
called a '' self-pleasing quaintness," a style and manner peculiarly his 
own and perfectly expressive of his individuality. 

About two years after the appearance of Lamb's '' The Londoner," 
Leigh Hunt began to contribute his juvenile essays to the Traveller 
Tames Henry newspaper (1804-1805), and during the next fifty years, 
Leigh Hunt amid much ephemeral matter, largely critical or joumal- 
(17 4-1059) \<sx\(z^ a very considerable body of familiar essays appeared 
from his pen. Though in the Reflector (1811-1812) he made a nota- 
ble attempt to found a literary magazine, yet the new type of maga- 
zine, when it was actually established, had much slighter effect upon 
his development than upon that of any of his contemporaries ; by far 
the larger number of his essays were written for newspapers, family 
miscellanies, and independent sheets patterned somewhat closely 
after the Tatler. In fact, his most attractive and most characteristic 
work appeared in periodicals of the kind last mentioned. The most 



1 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

important of these was the earliest, the Indicator, which was issued 
weekly from October 13, 18 19, to March 21, 182 1. Similar in 
character were the Co77ipanion (1828) and Leigh Hunfs Londoii 
Jourtial (183 4- 1 83 5). No approximately full collection of Hunt's 
essays was made before his death, in 1859, nor, indeed, has any 
been made since. Selections from the Indicator and the Co77ipanion 
were reprinted in 1834; and the Seer (1840-1841), Men, Wometi, 
and Books (1847), ^^^ Table Talk (185 1) contained a good deal of 
matter that had previously appeared.^ 

The influence of the earlier types was even more pervasive and 
persistent in Hunt's work than in Lamb's, Hunt's papers in the 
Traveller ^&ce in avowed imitation of the Con?ioisseur (1754-1756), 
itself an imitator of the Tatler and the Spectator. In the Reflector, 
which he edited, most of his own essays, as well as many from other 
contributors, were similar in subject and manner to those of Addison 
and Goldsmith. A third literary venture of his, the Round Table 
papers in the Examiner (18 15-18 17), was confessedly designed 
after the Tatler and the Spectator, and most of Hunt's own writing 
was strongly suggestive of his reading in the essays of the eighteenth 
century. The influence of the early models persisted in a large pro- 
portion of even his most individual and most nearly original essays, 
such as those written for the Iidicator. His " characters," particularly, 
a form which he cultivated as long as he wrote, owed much both to 
the seventeenth-century '' characters " and to the more lifelike and 
dramatic studies of the Tatler and its successors. 

Hunt's own everyday experiences and his observation of the 
everyday life about him formed the staple of his essays : he wrote 
upon books, the stage, clothes, manners and habits, the weather, ani- 
mal pets, interesting types of character, the life of the London streets, 
the pleasures and the discomforts of a dweller in the suburbs, the 
joys and the sorrows of domestic life. Books were his chief inter- 
est, and his reading largely colored his observation. His distinctive 
manner first showed itself in " A Day by the Fire," in the last number 
of the Reflector — a cheery, familiarly gossiping presentation of a 

2 In the list of Hunt's collected essays, one feels tempted to include the 
Autobiography (1851, 1852, revised i860) ; it is much more a series of sketches 
and reminiscences than a connected account of his life, and it has the chatty, 
intimate manner of his essays. 



INTRODUCTION li 

book lover's enjoyment of his snug fireside. Hunt's personality as 
revealed in his essays, unlike Lamb's, was not such as unfailingly 
to win the reader's appreciative sympathy, nor was he, like Hazlitt, 
keenly analytical or deeply reflective ; he was merely a companion- 
able sort of person who chatted entertainingly about everything that 
caught his own interest. His talk was sprightly, frequently inter- 
rupted to touch some topic that had suggested itself, now colored 
with sentiment, now shot through with gentle or tricksy humor. Few 
essayists have conveyed more perfectly than Hunt the sense of their 
own personality. 

Hazlitt first appeared in the role of essayist as the principal asso- 
ciate of Leigh Hunt in the Round Table papers published in the 
William Examiner between January i , 1 8 1 5 , and January 5 , 1 8 1 7 . 

Hazlitt After the somewhat abrupt termination of this series 

(1778-1830) Hazlitt turned his energies for a few years very largely 
to the preparation of lectures on English literature, in the mean- 
time writing a few brief essays for the Edmburgh Magazine, New 
Series (18 18). With the establishment of the London Magazi7ie, in 
1820, the period of his most abundant and characteristic work as 
essayist began. In the periodicals to which he had been contributing 
he had been cramped for room ; now he had space in which to write 
himself out upon his chosen topics, and his papers accordingly ex- 
panded to two or three times their former length. His first essay in 
the Lo7idon appeared in June, 1820, and he wrote regularly for this 
magazine until December, 182 1. In February of the following year 
he allied himself with the revivified New Monthly Magazine, to which 
he was a more or less regular contributor until his death, in 1830. 
He occasionally wrote also for other magazines, for newspapers, and 
for the miscellanies then coming into popularity. 

These contributions to periodicals did not exhaust Hazlitt's fertility. 
In 1821-1822 he published under the title Table Talk thirty-three 
essays, twenty-six of which had not been printed previously ; and in 
1826, The Plain Speaker, in which thirteen of the thirty-two essays 
were new. These two collections contained a great deal of his most 
attractive and most characteristic writing. Except in the Round Table 
(18 1 7), Table Talk, and The Plain Speaker, Hazlitt did not collect 
and republish his essays. In 1839 this was in part done by his son 
in Winter slow and Essays and Sketches. 



Hi THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

In the Rou7id Table paper on the Tatler, Hazlitt declared Montaigne 
to be " a most magnanimous and undisguised egotist." In a sense — 
not the commonly accepted one, to be sure — the first half of this 
characterization might be applied to Hazlitt as well as to Montaigne ; 
the second half, without any qualification, would be applied to him 
by anyone who knew him. In the earlier papers of Round Table 
series his individuality showed strongly, although he wrote under the 
restraint of the editorial and collective tve\ in his later papers he 
broke through even this thin disguise and wrote freely and openly in 
his own person. Very few of his essays were purely autobiographic 
or reminiscent ; and yet he wrote the whole body of them out of 
himself, and into them he wrote himself completely. It would be diffi- 
cult to discover a single important circumstance of his life to which 
he did not refer in his writing, and equally difficult to find a paper of 
his in which he did not exhibit clearly some phase of his many-angled 
personality. As a young man Hazlitt studied painting, and although 
he was unsuccessful as an artist, painting and the great painters 
remained one of his passions. He was deeply rather than widely 
read — in Cervantes and Boccaccio, in certain French writers from 
Montaigne and Rabelais to Rousseau, and in English literature from 
the time of Shakespeare. His personal acquaintance included most 
of the writers of the time, for whom and for whose works he had 
strong — and usually mixed — feelings of attachment or aversion. 
He was a dramatic critic whose enthusiasm had not become sated or 
dulled. He fancied himself a metaphysician, and was much given to 
reflection upon philosophical and psychological problems and proc- 
esses, particularly upon his own ideas and emotions. This speculative 
and reflective habit of mind produced his somewhat cynical observa- 
tion of society, in which he concerned himself much more with the 
springs of conduct than with speech and dress and manners, though 
these details did not wholly escape his animadversion. Finally, he 
remained throughout his life a political Radical, preserving unchanged 
his hatred of repression and his faith in the doctrines and ideas of the 
French Revolution. Curiously enough, however, he saw in Napoleon 
the embodiment of these principles and made him the '' god of his 
idolatry." 

Although Hazlitt was almost never wholly promiscuous and desul- 
tory, yet, except in the briefer and earlier Round Table papers, he 



INTRODUCTION liii 

rarely presented a carefully ordered treatment of a subject. His 
essays had much of the discursive character of talk — but the talk of 
a thinker who is always master of his subject and is never mastered 
by it. His manner combined a good deal of Montaigne's reflective 
self-curiosity with Rousseau's naked self-revelation of feeling ; he 
lacked, however, something of the latter's hectic sentimentalism as 
well as the former's open-mindedness. Hazlitt's style, though thor- 
oughly individual, was unusually free from mannerisms ; two particu- 
lars of it, however, were very striking. The first was his fondness for 
quotation, frequently remembered inexactly and almost as frequently 
somewhat changed to secure greater appositeness. The quotations 
were never paraded, and appeared as congruous and native as 
Hazlitt's own diction. The second was his favorite practice of begin- 
ning a paper, particularly one on a speculative or reflective theme, by 
some striking statement, epigrammatic or paradoxical. This was, of 
course, the device employed by Bacon and somewhat frequently by 
essayists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Hazlitt's work 
showed other occasional resemblances to the " character " and to the 
papers in the Tafler, but the indebtedness, even in his earliest essays, 
was actually very slight — Hazlitt was a thoroughgoing individualist, 
who never willingly conformed to any convention, literary or social. 

Next to Lamb, Hunt, and Hazlitt, probably John Wilson (" Chris- 
topher North ") and Thomas De Quincey were most influential in the 
John Wilson establishment of the new type of familiar essay. Wilson 
(1785-1854) joined the staff of Blackwood's with the number for 
October, 18 17, and soon became the most important contributor 
to that magazine. The Nodes Ai?ib?'osia7ice, which for the most part 
were written by him and by which his reputation was chiefly estab- 
lished, were a series of dialogues constituting a symposium upon the 
topics of the day, and cannot strictly be classed as familiar essays ; 
but they possessed many of the features of the essay, and their 
popularity encouraged indirectly the cultivation of the type. In 
addition Wilson wrote for Blackwood's a number of papers after the 
general pattern that was being set by Lamb and Hazlitt. 

De Quincey 's first essay was the '' Confessions of an English Opium- 
Eater," published in the London Magazine for September and October, 
182 1. It commanded immediate and lasting popularity. In the suc- 
ceeding thirty years De Quincey wrote for a number of magazines, 



liv THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

particularly Blackwood s and Taifs ; for the former, the '^ Suspiria de 
Profundis" (1845) and ''The English Mail Coach" (1849); for the 
Th m s De letter, many articles presenting sections of his autobiog- 
Quincey raphy and reminiscences of his literary friends and ac- 

(1785-1859) quaintances.^ Most of the essays proper, such as the 
"Suspiria" and the ''Confessions," were largely dream phantasma- 
goria, the real or feigned result of De Quincey's consumption of 
opium. They were characterized by their extreme length and discur- 
siveness, and in many passages by a dignity of cadence and subtlety 
of rhythm hardly before attempted in English prose. 

Though it is as a novelist that Dickens holds his place in literary 
history, yet it was as an essayist that he first attracted notice. His 
p. . earliest departure from mere journalism was in the 

Dickens Sketches by Boz, the first of which was published in the 

(1812-1870) Monthly Magazine for December, 1833, and others in 
the Monthly and in the Eveiiing Chronicle during the next two years. 
Some of these sketches, particularly portrayals of characters, were 
apparently wTitten under the influence of Leigh Hunt. A quarter of 
a century later Dickens began a new series of essays and fetches, 
first collected in the Uncommercial Traveller and issued in Decei 
i860.* To this collection additions were made in 1868 and 1869! 

But the chief figure among the essayists of the mid-century was 
Thackeray. A number of his contributions to Punch between 1846 
and 1850 — tho. Snobs of England (^1^/^6-1?)^']), Travels 
Makepeace ^^^ London (i 847-1 848), and Air. Brow7i's Letters to a 
Thackeray Young Man about Tow7i (1849) — presented most of the 
^^ ^ features of the familiar essay, frequently differing from 

the type only in the excessive heightening of burlesque or satirical 
tone; and The Proser (1850) was really a series of familiar essays. 

^ Although the contributions to Taifs Magazitie, in their content and in their 
intimate, almost gossiping style, are nearly related to the familiar essay, yet, as 
De Quincey published them they are more accurately to be classified as 
magazine articles than as essays. 

^ The inference seems warranted that the Uncomtnercial Traveller was 
written in some measure to compete with Thackeray's Roitndaboiit Pape7-s in 
the Cornhill, the initial number of which had appeared but a few weeks before 
the first of the sketches by the Lhiconnnercial Traveller. The competition did 
not last long, however, as the series began January 28, i860, and was concluded 
October 13 of the same year. 



INTRODUCTION Iv 

They were written in the character of Dr. Solomon Pacifico, an " old 
Fo^ey " of kindly heart and much experience of the world and a very 
close relative of the later moralist of the Roujidabout Papers. It is, 
however, to the Roundabout Papers in the Cornhill Magazine that 
Thackeray owes his place in the small group of writers who have 
given to the familiar essay in England its charm and distinction. 
When the Cornhill began publication in January, i860, Thackeray 
was its editor, and he continued in this position until after the number 
for March, 1862. Then ill health and the irritating urgency of his 
editorial duties caused his resignation, though he remained a con- 
tributor to the magazine until his death, December 24, 1863. The 
first of the Roundabout Papers appeared in the initial number of 
the Cornhill^ the last in the issue for November, 1863. The total 
numocx' of essays included in the series is thirty-four, though six of 
them did not appear under this heading when they were first pub- 
lished in the Cor7ihill. 

The various single Roundabout Papers rambled in such a pleasantly 
discursive fashion that they do not readily submit to any definite 
classification based on the subjects treated. A few were dream phan- 
tasmagoria ; several were inspired by events or situatiops of contem- 
poraneous interest ; a goodly number were largely autobiographical or 
reminiscential, concerned particularly with Thackeray's boyhood, with 
his reading, and with his editorial trials and triumphs ; but by far the 
largest part of the whole body consisted of reflections — humorous, 
satirical, sympathetic — based upon the writer's observation of human 
life and conduct and character. Indeed, in nearly every essay, what- 
ever the professed subject, there were almost sure to be shrewd 
thrusts at sham and disingenuousness, or whole-hearted attacks upon 
baseness and meanness hidden behind respectability, or the sympa- 
thetic consideration of human weakness, or grateful appreciation of 
such simple virtues as manly strength and honor and womanly purity 
and charity. In Thackeray's consideration of the human comedy, his 
point of view was the same as in his novels, particularly the later 
ones — that of a member of the upper ranks of society, a man of 
breeding and position and knowledge of the world, whose experience 
had made him thoroughly cognizant of human frailty but had also 
mellowed him to a kindly tolerance. The audience to whom he espe- 
cially directed himself were men of his own station and the members 



Ivi THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

of their families ; his sympathy embraced servants and workhouse 
inmates, but his attitude toward them was that of the considerate 
master and the genuinely charitable gentleman. 

In the essayist's point of view, in the audience particularly addressed, 
and in the generally prevalent tone of social satire the Roundabout 
Papers were strongly suggestive of the eighteenth century. A further 
resemblance in detail appeared in the frequent use of illustrative 
characters with descriptive or suggestive names. But the differences 
were even more noteworthy than the resemblances. L^nlike the 
eighteenth-century essayists Thackeray as a social satirist was con- 
cerned not with externals of taste and dress and manners, but with 
character and its expression in conduct. Further, in their greater 
length, in their discursiveness, and in their intimate revelations of 
personality, his essays were closely related to those of Montaigne and 
Lamb and Hazlitt. Montaigne was Thackeray's " bedtime book." 

The Rotmdabout Papers owed almost as much of their attractive- 
ness to their style as to the personality of the writer. They possessed 
the greatest charm of familiar writing — conversational ease that 
does not lack vigor or suppleness and still does not degenerate 
into vulgarit;^- 

Dr. John Brown, an active physician of Edinburgh and a valued 
friend of Thackeray's, occupies a small but significant position as 
Dr. John essayist, chiefiy by reason of his sketches of dog life and 
Brown character. " Rab and his Friends," the best known of his 

(I lo-i 2) works, was as much story as essay and claimed interest 
as much for its human figures as for its canine hero ; but certain other 
very attractive papers were simply studies of the personality of dog 
companions by one who loved and understood them. Dr. Brown's 
essays also included some delightfully fresh out-of-door pieces, such 
as " Minchmoor " and " The Enterkin " which in many respects 
anticipated the travel essays of Stevenson. His writings, of which 
only a part are properly familiar essays, were first collected in the 
three volumes of HorcE Subsecivce, published in 1858, 1861, and 
1882, respectively. 

Of the later nineteenth-century essayists Robert Louis Stevenson, 
a fellow townsman of Dr. Brown's, was the most conspicuous — nota- 
ble for the character of his own work and for the stimulus he gave 
both to the writing and to the reading of essays. Stevenson first 



INTRODUCTION Ivii 

appeared in print in a half-dozen papers written for the Edinburgh 
U?iiversity Magazme QdiXwidccy-A^rW, 187 1). After the demise of this 
Robert Louis Publication he practiced his art assiduously, but for some 
Stevenson two and a half years he published nothing. Then, in 
(1850-1894) December, 1873, an article of his entitled " Roads," which 
had been rejected by the Saturday Revieiv^ appeared in the Portfolio. 
In May, 1874, he contributed "Ordered South" to Maa7iiUan's 
Magazine^ and in the same year, through the discernment of Mr. 
Leslie Stephen, the editor of the Cor?ihiU, his work was admitted to 
the pages of that magazine. From 1876 through 1882 the Cornhill 
was by far his most important medium of publication ; after the latter 
year his writings appeared more at large. The most important body 
of essays of his later life was written for Scribbler's Magazine^ one 
paper appearing each month throughout 1888. In the summer of 
that year Stevenson sailed on his first voyage to the South Seas. 
Thereafter his voyages, the setting up of his establishment in Samoa 
and his interest in Samoan public affairs, letter writing, and absorp- 
tion in fiction consumed his energies, and he published no essays. 

Several small volumes of Stevenson's essays were collected and 
published before his death in 1894. The earliest of these, Virginibtcs 
Piierisque (188 1), contained fourteen papers; Memories a Jid Portraits 
(1887), sixteen ; and Across the Plains (1892), twelve. All but three 
or four of the essays contained in these volumes had been printed 
previously in various periodicals. Even before Virginibus Pueris- 
que two other slender volumes had appeared : A71 Inland Voyage 
(1878) — Stevenson's first book — and Travels with a Donkey 
(1879). "^^^ titles suggest narratives, but these little books were 
really series of travel essays, almost any one of which could be 
enjoyed separately, though the papers composing each volume were 
bound together by a slender thread of narrative. Familiar Studies of 
Mefi and Books (1882), despite its title, can hardly be considered a 
collection of familiar essays ; it is rather a group of critical articles. 
For some years preceding Stevenson's death his essays were more 
widely read than were those of any one of his contemporaries ; never- 
theless, no full collection of them was issued before the publication 
of the first complete edition of his works in 1895. 

Stevenson's essays presented chiefly four kinds of material : travel 
impressions, autobiography and reminiscence, moral and philosophical 



Iviii THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

ideas, and a writer's interest in his craft. Probably Stevenson's most 
characteristic work was his development of the travel essay, the cul- 
tivation of this particular variety being the natural consequence of the 
nomadic habits which his search for health and his innate fondness 
for wandering confirmed in him. In his hands the travel sketch 
became not merely a narrative of travel or a description of places 
visited and objects and persons observed ; it was both narrative and 
description, combined with recollections, comments, reflections, and 
all interpenetrated by his personality. 

The title Me??io?'ies and Foriraits indicates the character of a con- 
siderable number of Stevenson's essays other than those included in 
the volume to which it was affixed. The portraits ranged from those 
of beggars, the family gardener, and an old shepherd, to the friends 
of Stevenson's youth and the members of his own family. The 
memories were largely of his childhood and young manhood — and 
naturally so, as he had scarcely reached middle age when his last 
essay was written. The most highly individual papers of this kind 
were those in which Stevenson recalled his very early sensations and 
impressions, and interpreted the actions and emotions of childhood 
in very much the same sympathetic spirit as in his Child's Garden 
of Verse. 

The essays in which were embodied Stevenson's ethical and phil- 
osophical ideas varied in content from an appreciation of wisely spent 
idleness or a study of the comic incongruities incident upon falling 
in love, to a resolute, almost stoical facing of man's ultimate fate. 
They manifested his conviction that life is well worth the living and 
that this world is a very good place in which to live it, his admiration 
for the active and unafraid, and his remoteness from that spirit which 
is actuated to well-doing merely by the hope of bread-and-butter suc- 
cess in this world or by a promised reward of immortality in another. 
Almost everywhere in Stevenson's essays the moralist appeared ; ^ 
not as the righteous Pharisee or the self-constituted reformer of 
society, but as an observer and thinker thoroughly human and richly 
endowed with a sense of humor. 

Besides the distinctly critical articles a number of Stevenson's 
essays showed his interest in the craft of letters. These exhibited his 

^ In " Talk and Talkers " Stevenson declared that " you can keep no man 
long, nor Scotchman at all, off moral or theological discussion." 



INTRODUCTION ^ lix 

contempt for slovenly and dishonest writing, and insisted upon the 
blindness of the note-taking realists who transcribe the bare apparent 
facts and ignore the poetry and romance of life. They also recounted 
his own efforts to learn to write and his unwearied pursuit of style. 
For no writer of English has been more consciously a stylist, or has 
considered more nicely the effects he aimed to produce. In the choice 
of word and phrase, as in the attitude toward his subject, he carried 
almost to the extreme what Mr. Leslie Stephen has characterized as 
a " hatred for the commonplace formula." His style was fluid, always 
in process of change, but there was a fairly consistent difference be- 
tween that of his earlier and of his later essays. The earlier papers, 
those in the Virginibus Puerisqiie collection, for example, were the 
more mannered — Stevenson himself declared that they were written 
in a '' neat, brisk little style " ; the later, including most of the essays 
collected in Across the Plains, were less affected, less jaunty. While 
they were being written and afterwards, Stevenson was practicing 
what he called a '' bald " style. He has named the models whom he 
chose to follow.^ Significantly enough, the eighteenth-century essay- 
ists are not included in the list ; and equally significant is a statement 
of his that he ^^ could never read a word " of Addison. But of 
Montaigne and of Hazlitt — who of all the English essayists most 
resembles Montaigne — he was an eager and admiring student. 
And his relationship to these two was much closer than that of 
style in any narrowly restricted sense of the term. 

With Stevenson the tale of the greater essayists of the nineteenth 
century is ended, and thus far in the twentieth century no one has 
The essay appeared to match him in charm and distinction. As, 
to-day moreover, no really important modification of the char- 

acter of the familiar essay has occurred since his death, this sketch 
of the development of the t)^e may well be concluded with the 
account of his work. But Stevenson is by no means the last of the 



6 In "A College Magazine" Stevenson wrote of having "played the sedulous 
ape to Hazlitt, to Lamb, to Wordsworth, to Sir Thomas Browne, to Defoe, to 
Hawthorne, to Montaigne, to Baudelaire, and to Obermann." And in a note 
book of 1871-1872 is a Catalogiis Libronim Carissimorji?n, at the head of which 
is Montaigne's Essays, followed at a litde distance by Hazlitt's Table Talk. 
The reader of this present collection may observe in " Walking Tours " 
Stevenson's enthusiasm for Hazlitt. 



Ix 



THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 



English essayists ; to-day Chesterton and Benson and Galsworthy 
are notable names. And despite the popularity of the short story, 
which during the last twenty-five years has come more and more 
to occupy the magazines, the essay holds its place secure, and 
promises to continue to give pleasant half hours to the thoughtful 
and unhurried reader. 



THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 



MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE (1533-1592) 

THE AUTHOR TO THE READER 

(1580) 

Reader, lo here a well-meaning book. It doth at the first 
entrance forewarn thee that in contriving the same I have 
proposed unto myself no other than a familiar and private 
end : I have no respect or consideration at all either to thy 
service or to my glory ; my forces are not capable of any 
such design. I have vowed the same to the particular com- 
modity of my kinsfolks and friends ; to the end that losing 
me (which they are likely to do ere long) they may therein 
find some lineaments of my conditions and humours, and by 
that means reserve more whole and more lively foster the 
knowledge and acquaintance they have had of me. Had my 
intention been to forestall and purchase the world's opinion 
and favour, I would surely have adorned myself more quaintly, 
or kept a more grave and solemn march. I desire therein 
to be delineated in mine own genuine, simple, and ordinary 
fashion, without contention, art, or study ; for it is myself I 
portray. My imperfections shall therein be read to the life, 
and my natural form discerned, so far forth as public reverence 
hath permitted me. For if my fortune had been to have lived 
among those nations which yet are said to live under the 
sweet liberty of Nature's first and uncorrupted laws, I assure 
thee I would most willingly have portrayed myself fully and 
naked. Thus, gentle Reader, myself am the groundwork of 
my book. It is then no reason thou shouldest employ thy 
time about so frivolous and vain a subject. Therefore farewell. 
From Montaiorne, the first of March 1580. 



2 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

OF SORROW 

(1580) 

No man living is more free from this passion than I, who 
yet neither Uke it in myself nor admire it in others, and yet 
generally the world, as a settled thing, is pleased to grace it 
with a particular esteem, clothing therewith wisdom, virtue, 
and conscience. Foolish and sordid guise ! The Italians have 
more fitly baptized by this name malignity ; for 'tis a quality 
always hurtful, always idle and vain ; and as being cowardly, 
mean, and base, it is by the Stoics expressly and particularly 
forbidden to their sages. 

But the story says that Psammitichus, King of Egypt, being 
defeated and taken prisoner by Cambyses, King of Persia, 
seeing his own daughter pass by him as prisoner, and in a 
wretched habit, with a bucket to draw water, though his friends 
about him were so concerned as to break out into tears and 
lamentations, yet he himself remained unmoved, without utter- 
ing a word, his eyes fixed upon the ground ; and seeing, 
moreover, his son immediately after led to execution, still 
maintained the same countenance ; till spying at last one of 
his domestic and familiar friends dragged away amongst the 
captives, he fell to tearing his hair and beating his breast, 
with all the other extravagances of extreme sorrow. 

A story that may very fitly be coupled with another of the 
same kind, of recent date, of a prince of our own nation, 
who being at Trent, and having news there brought him of 
the death of his elder brother, a brother on whom depended 
the whole support and honour of his house, and soon after of 
that of a younger brother, the second hope of his family, and 
having withstood these two assaults with an exemplary resolu- 
tion ; one of his servants happening a few days after to die, 
he suffered his constancy to be overcome by this last accident ; 
and, parting with his courage, so abandoned himself to sorrow 
and mourning, that some thence were forward to conclude that 
he was only touched to the quick by this last stroke of fortune ; 



MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE 3 

but, in truth, it was, that being before brimful of grief, the 
least addition overflowed the bounds of all patience. Which, 
I think, might also be said of the former example, did not 
the story proceed to tell us that Cambyses asking Psammiti- 
chus, " Why, not being moved at the calamity of his son and 
daughter, he should with so great impatience bear the mis- 
fortune of his friend ? " " It is," answered he, "because only 
this last affliction was to be manifested by tears, the two first 
far exceeding all manner of expression." 

And, peradventure, something like this might be working 
in the fancy of the ancient painter, who having, in the sacri- 
fice of Iphigenia, to represent the sorrow of the assistants 
proportionably to the several degrees of interest every one 
had in the death of this fair innocent virgin, and having, in 
the other figures, laid out the utmost power of his art, when 
he came to that of her father, he drew him with a veil over 
his face, meaning thereby that no kind of countenance was 
capable of expressing such a degree of sorrow. Which is also 
the reason why the poets feign the miserable mother, Niobe, 
having first lost seven sons, and then afterwards as many 
daughters (overwhelmed with her losses), to be at last trans- 
formed into a rock — 

Diriguisse malis, 

thereby to express that melancholic, dumb, and deaf stupefac- 
tion, which benumbs all our faculties, when oppressed with 
accidents greater than we are able to bear. And, indeed, the 
violence and impression of an excessive grief must of necessity 
astonish the soul, and wholly deprive her of her ordinary func- 
tions : as -it happens to every one of us, who, upon any sudden 
alarm of very ill news, find ourselves surprised, stupefied, and 
in a manner deprived of all power of motion, so that the soul, 
beginning to vent itself in tears and lamentations, seems to 
free and disengage itself from the sudden oppression, and to 
have obtained some room to work itself out at greater liberty, 

Et via vix tandem voci laxata dolore est. 



4 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

In the war that Ferdinand made upon the widow of King 
John of Hungary, about Buda, a man-at-arms was particularly 
taken notice of by every one for his singular gallant behaviour 
in a certain encounter ; and, unknown, highly commended, and 
lamented, being left dead upon the place : but by none so 
much as by RaTsciac, a German lord, who was infinitely enam- 
oured of so rare a valour. The body being brought off, and 
the count, with the common curiosity coming to view it, the 
armour was no sooner taken off but he immediately knew him 
to be his own son, a thing that added a second blow to the 
compassion of all the beholders ; only he, without uttering a 
word, or turning away his eyes from the woeful object, stood 
fixedly contemplating the body of his son, till the vehemency 
of sorrow having overcome his vital spirits, made him sink 
down stone-dead to the ground. — 

Chi puo dir com' egli arde, e in picciol fuoco, 

say the Innamoratos, when they would represent an insup- 
portable passion : — 

Misero quod omneis 
Eripit sensus mihi : nam simul te, 
Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi, 

Quod loquar amens. 
Lingua sed torpet : tenuis sub artus 
Flamma dimanat ; sonitu suopte 
Tintinant aures ; gemina teguntur 
Lumina nocte. 

Neither is it in the height and greatest fury of the fit that 
we are in a condition to pour out our complaints or our amorous 
persuasions, the soul being at that time over-burdened, and labour- 
ing with profound thoughts ; and the body dejected and languish- 
ing with desire ; and thence it is that sometimes proceed those 
accidental impotencies that so unseasonably surprise the lover, 
and that frigidity which by the force of an immoderate ardour 
seizes him even in the very lap of fruition. For all passions that 
suffer themselves to be relished and digested are but moderate : — 

Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent. 



MICHEL 1)E MONTAIGNE 5 

A surprise of unexpected joy does likewise often produce 
the same effect : — 

Ut me conspexit venientem, et Troja circum 
Arma amens vidit, magnis exterrita monstris, 
Diriguit visu in medio, calor ossa reliquit. 
Labitur, et longo vix tandem tempore fatur. 

Besides the examples of the Roman lady, who died for joy 
to see her son safe returned from the defeat of Cannae ; and 
of Sophocles and of Dionysius the Tyrant, who died of joy ; 
and of Thalna, who died in Corsica, reading news of the 
honours the Roman Senate had decreed in his favour, we 
have, moreover, one in our time, of Pope Leo X, who, upon 
news of the taking of Milan, a thing he had so ardently de- 
sired, was rapt with so sudden an excess of joy that he imme- 
diately fell into a fever and died. And for a more notable 
testimony of the imbecility of human nature, it is recorded by 
the ancients that Diodorus the dialectician died upon the spot, 
out of an extreme passion of shame, for not having been able 
in his own school, and in the presence of a great auditory, to 
disengage himself from a nice argument that was propounded 
to him. I, for my part, am very little subject to these violent 
passions ; I am naturally of a stubborn apprehension, which 
also, by reasoning, I every day harden and fortify. 



OF REPENTANCE 

(1588) 

Others form man ; I only report him : and represent a par- 
ticular one, ill fashioned enough, and whom, if I had to model 
him anew, I should certainly make something else than what 
he is : but that 's past recalling. Now, though the features of 
my picture alter and change, 't is not, however, unlike : the 
world eternally turns round ; all things therein are incessantly 
moving, the earth, the rocks of Caucasus, and the pyramids 
of Egypt, both, by the public motion and their own. Even 



6 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

constancy itself is no other but a slower and more languishing 
motion. I cannot fix my object ; 'tis always tottering and reel- 
ing by a natural giddiness ; I take it as it is at the instant I 
consider it ; I do not paint its being, I paint its passage ; not 
a passing from one age to another, or, as the people say, from 
seven to seven years, but from day to day, from minute to 
minute. I must accommodate my history to the hour : I may 
presently change, not only by fortune, but also by intention. 
'T is a counterpart of various and changeable accidents, and 
of irresolute imaginations, and, as it falls out, sometimes con- 
trary : whether it be that I am then another self, or that I 
take subjects by other circumstances and considerations : so it 
is, that I may peradventure contradict myself, but, as Demades 
said, I never contradict the truth. Could my soul once take 
footing, I would not essay but resolve : but it is always learning 
and making trial. 

I propose a life ordinary and without lustre : 't is all one ; 
all moral philosophy may as well be applied to a common and 
private life, as to one of richer composition : every man carries 
the entire form of human condition. Authors communicate 
themselves to the people by some especial and extrinsic mark; 
I, the first of any, by my universal being ; as Michel de Mon- 
taigne, not as a grammarian, a poet, or a lawyer. If the world 
find fault that I speak too much of myself, I find fault that 
they do not so much as think of themselves. But is it reason 
that, being so particular in my way of living, I should pretend 
to recommend myself to the public knowledge ? And is it 
also reason that I should produce to the world, where art and 
handling have so much credit and authority, crude and simple 
effects of nature, and of a weak nature to boot ? Is it not to 
build a wall without stone or brick, or some such thing, to 
write books without learning and without art ? The fancies 
of music are carried on by art ; mine by chance. I have this, 
at least, according to discipline, that never any man treated of 
a subject he better understood and knew than I what I have 
undertaken, and that in this I am the most understanding man 



MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE 7 

alive : secondly, that never any man penetrated farther into 
his matter, nor better and more distinctly sifted the parts and 
sequences of it, nor ever more exactly and fully arrived at 
the end he proposed to himself. To perfect it, I need bring 
nothing but fidelity to the work ; and that is there, and the 
most pure and sincere that is anywhere to be found. I speak 
truth, not so much as I would, but as much as I dare ; and I 
dare a little the more, as I grow older ; for, methinks, custom 
allows to age more liberty of prating, and more indiscretion of 
talking of a man's self. That cannot fall out here, which I 
often see elsewhere, that the work and the artificer contradict 
one another : '' Can a man of such sober conversation have 
written so foolish a book .? " Or '' Do so learned writings pro- 
ceed from a man of so weak conversation .? " He who talks at 
a very ordinary rate, and writes rare matter, 't is to say that his 
capacity is borrowed and not his own. A learned man is not 
learned in all things : but a sufficient man is sufficient through- 
out, even to ignorance itself ; here my book and I go hand in 
hand together. Elsewhere men may commend or censure the 
work, without reference to the workman ; here they cannot : 
who touches the one, touches the other. He who shall judge 
of it without knowing him, will more wrong himself than me ; 
he who does know him, gives me all the satisfaction I desire. 
I shall be happy beyond my desert, if I can obtain only thus 
much from the public approbation, as to make men of under- 
standing perceive that I was capable of profiting by knowledge, 
had I had it ; and that I deserved to have been assisted by a 
better memory. 

Be pleased here to excuse what I often repeat, that I very 
rarely repent, and that my conscience is satisfied with itself, 
not as the conscience of an angel, or that of a horse, but as 
the conscience of a man ; always adding this clause, not one 
of ceremony, but a true and real submission, that I speak in- 
quiring and doubting, purely and simply referring myself to 
the common and accepted beliefs for the resolution. I do 
not teach, I only relate. 



8 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

There is no vice that is absolutely a vice which does not 
offend, and that a sound judgment does not accuse ; for there 
is in it so manifest a deformity and inconvenience, that perad- 
venture they are in the right who say that it is chiefly begotten 
by stupidity and ignorance : so hard is it to imagine that a man 
can know without abhorring it. Malice sucks up the greatest 
part of its own venom, and poisons itself. Vice leaves repent- 
ance in the soul, like an ulcer in the flesh, which is always 
scratching and lacerating itself : for reason effaces all other 
grief and sorrows, but it begets that of repentance, which is 
so much the more grievous, by reason it springs within, as the 
cold and heat of fevers are more sharp than those that only 
strike upon the outward skin. I hold for vices (but every one 
according to its proportion), not only those which reason and 
nature condemn, but those also which the opinion of men, 
though false and erroneous, have made such, if authorised by 
law and custom. 

There is likewise no virtue which does not rejoice a well- 
descended nature : there is a kind of, I know not what, con- 
gratulation in well-doing that gives us an inward satisfaction, 
and a generous boldness that accompanies a good conscience: 
a soul daringly vicious may, peradventure, arm itself with 
security, but it cannot supply itself with this complacency and 
satisfaction. 'T is no little satisfaction to feel a man's self pre- 
served from the contagion of so depraved an age, and to say 
to himself : ' ' Whoever could penetrate into my soul would not 
there find me guilty either of the affliction or ruin of any one, 
or of revenge or envy, or any offence against the public laws, 
or of innovation or disturbance, or failure of my word ; and 
though the licence of the time permits and teaches every one 
so to do, yet have I not plundered any Frenchman's goods, or 
taken his money, and have lived upon what is my own, in war 
as w^ell as in peace ; neither have I set any man to work with- 
out paying him his hire." These testimonies of a good con- 
science please, and this natural rejoicing is very beneficial to 
us, and the only reward that we can never fail of. 



MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE 9 

To ground the recompense of virtuous actions upon the ap- 
probation of others is too uncertain and unsafe a foundation, 
especially in so corrupt and ignorant an age as this, wherein 
the good opinion of the vulgar is injurious : upon whom do 
you rely to show you what is recommendable ? God defend 
me from being an honest man, according to the descriptions 
of honour I daily see every one make of himself : 

Quae fuerant vitia, mores sunt. 

Some of my friends have at times schooled and scolded me 
with great sincerity and plainness, either of their own volun- 
tary motion, or by me entreated to it as to an office, which to 
a well-composed soul surpasses not only in utility, but in kind- 
ness, all other offices of friendship : I have always received 
them with the most open arms, both of courtesy and acknowl- 
edgment ; but, to say the truth, I have often found so much 
false measure, both in their reproaches and praises, that I had 
not done much amiss, rather to have done ill, than to have 
done well according to their notions. We, who live private 
lives, not exposed to any other view than our own, ought 
chiefly to have settled a pattern within ourselves by which to 
try our actions ; and according to that, sometimes to encourage 
and sometimes to correct ourselves. I have my laws and my 
judicature to judge of myself, and apply myself more to these 
than to any other rules : I do, indeed, restrain my actions ac- 
cording to others ; but extend them not by any other rule than 
my own. You yourself only know if you are cowardly and 
cruel, loyal and devout : others see you not, and only guess at 
you by uncertain conjectures, and do not so much see your 
nature as your art ; rely not therefore upon their opinions, 
but stick to your own : 

Tuo tibi judicio est utendum . . . Virtutis et vitiorum grave ipsius 
conscientiae pondus est : qua sublata, jacent omnia. 

But the saying that, repentance immediately follows the sin 
seems not to have respect to sin in its high estate, which is 



lO THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

lodged in us as in its own proper habitation. One may disown 
and retract the vices that surprise us, and to which we are hur- 
ried by passions ; but those which by a long habit are rooted 
in a strong and vigorous will are not subject to contradiction. 
Repentance is no other but a recanting of the will and an 
opposition to our fancies, w^hich lead us which way they 
please. It makes this person disown his former virtue and 
continency : — 

Quae mens est hodie, cur eadem non puero fuit ? 
Vel cur his animis incolumes non redeunt genae .? 

'T is an exact life that maintains itself in due order in pri- 
vate. Every one may juggle his part, and represent an honest 
man upon the stage : but within, and in his own bosom, where 
all may do as they list, where all is concealed, to be regular, 
— there 's the point. The next degree is to be so in his house, 
and in his ordinary actions, for which we are accountable to 
none, and where there is no study nor artifice. And therefore 
Bias, setting forth the excellent state of a private family, says : 
" of which the master is the same within, by his own virtue 
and temper, that he is abroad, for fear of the laws and report 
of men." And it was a worthy saying of Julius Drusus, to the 
masons who offered him, for three thousand crowns, to put his 
house in such a posture that his neighbours should no longer 
have the same inspection into it as before ; " I will give you," 
said he, ''six thousand to make it so that everybody may see 
into every room." 'T is honourably recorded of Agesilaus, that 
he used in his journeys always to take up his lodgings in tem- 
ples, to the end that the people and the gods themselves might 
pry into his most private actions. Such a one has been a 
miracle to the world, in whom neither his wife nor servant has 
ever seen anything so much as remarkable ; few men have 
been admired by their own domestics ; no one was ever a 
prophet, not merely in his own house, but in his own country, 
says the experience of histories : 't is the same in things of 
nought, and in this low example the image of a greater is to 



MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE II 

be seen. In my country of Gascony, they look upon it as a 
drollery to see me in print ; the further off I am read from 
my own home, the better I am esteemed. I purchase printers 
in Guienne ; elsewhere they purchase me. Upon this it is that 
they lay their foundation who conceal themselves present and 
living, to obtain a name when they are dead and absent. I 
had rather have a great deal less in hand, and do not expose 
myself to the world upon any other account than my present 
share ; when I leave it I quit the rest. See this functionary 
whom the people escort in state, with wonder and applause, to 
his very door ; he puts off the pageant with his robe, and falls 
so much the lower by how much he was higher exalted : in 
himself within, all is tumult and degraded. And though all 
should be regular there, it will require a vivid and well-chosen 
judgment to perceive it in these low and private actions ; to 
which may be added, that order is a dull, sombre virtue. To 
enter a breach, conduct an embassy, govern a people, are 
actions of renown ; to reprehend, laugh, sell, pay, love, hate, 
and gently and justly converse with a man's own family and 
with himself ; not to relax, not to give a man's self the lie, is 
more rare and hard, and less remarkable. By which means, 
retired lives, whatever is said to the contrary, undergo duties of 
as great or greater difficulty than the others do ; and private 
men, says Aristotle, serve virtue more painfully and highly 
than those in authority do : we prepare ourselves for eminent 
occasions, more out of glory than conscience. The shortest 
way to arrive at glory, would be to do that for conscience which 
we do for glory : and the virtue of Alexander appears to me 
of much less vigour in his great theatre, than that of Socrates 
in his mean and obscure employment. I can easily conceive 
Socrates in the place of Alexander, but Alexander in that of 
Socrates, I cannot. Who shall ask the one what he can do, 
he will answer, '' Subdue the world : " and who shall put the 
same question to the other, he will say, ''Carry on human life 
conformably with its natural condition;" a much more general, 
weighty, and legitimate science than the other. 



12 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

The virtue of the soul does not consist in flying high, but 
in walking orderly ; its grandeur does not exercise itself in 
grandeur, but in mediocrity. As they who judge and try us 
within, make no great account of the lustre of our public 
actions, and see they are only streaks and rays of clear water 
springing from a slimy and muddy bottom : so, likewise, they 
who judge of us by this gallant outward appearance, in like 
manner conclude of our internal constitution ; and cannot 
couple common faculties, and like their own, with the other 
faculties that astonish them, and are so far out of their sight. 
Therefore it is that we give such savage forms to demons : 
and who does not give Tamerlane great eyebrows, wide nos- 
trils, a dreadful visage, and a prodigious stature, according to 
the imagination he has conceived by the report of his name .'' 
Had any one formerly brought me to Erasmus, I should 
hardly have believed but that all was adage and apothegm 
he spoke to his man or his hostess. We much more aptly 
imagine an artisan upon his close-stool, or upon his wife, 
than a great president venerable by his port and sufficiency : 
we fancy that they, from their high tribunals, will not abase 
themselves so much as to live. As vicious souls are often 
incited by some foreign impulse to do w^ell, so are virtuous 
souls to do ill ; they are therefore to be judged by their settled 
state, when they are at home, whenever that may be ; and, 
at all events, when they are nearer repose, and in their native 
station. 

Natural inclinations are much assisted and fortified by edu- 
cation ; but they seldom alter and overcome their institution : 
a thousand natures of my time have escaped towards virtue 
or vice, through a quite contrary discipline : — 

Sic ubi, desuetae silvis, in carcere clausae 
Mansuevere ferae, et vultus posuere minaces, 
Atque hominem didicere pati, si torrida parvus 
Venit in ora cruor, redeunt rabiesque ftirorque, 
Admonitaeque tument gustato sanguine fauces : 
Fervet, et a trepido vix abstinet ira magistro ; 



MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE 13 

these original qualities are not to be rooted out ; they may be 
covered and concealed. The Latin tongue is as it were natural 
to me ; I understand it better than French ; but I have not 
been used to speak it, nor hardly to write it, these forty years. 
And yet upon extreme and sudden emotions which I have fallen 
into twice or thrice in my life, and once seeing my father in 
perfect health fall upon me in a swoon, I have always uttered 
from the bottom of my heart my first words in Latin ; nature 
deafened, and forcibly expressing itself, in spite of so long a 
discontinuation ; and this example is said of many others. 

They who in my time have attempted to correct the man- 
ners of the world by new opinions, reform seeming vices ; but 
the essential vices they leave as they were, if indeed they do 
not augment them ; and augmentation is therein to be feared ; 
we defer all other well doing upon the account of these exter- 
nal reformations, of less cost and greater show, and thereby 
expiate good cheap, for the other natural, consubstantial, and 
intestine vices. Look a little into our experience : there is no 
man, if he listen to himself, who does not in himself discover 
a particular and governing form of his own, that jostles his 
education, and wrestles with the tempest of passions that are 
contrary to it. For my part, I seldom find myself agitated 
with surprises ; I always find myself in my place, as heavy 
and unwieldy bodies do ; if I am not at home, I am always 
near at hand ; my dissipations do not transport me very far ; 
there is nothing strange or extreme in the case ; and yet I 
have sound and vigorous turns. 

The true condemnation, and which touches the common 
practice of men, is that their very retirement itself is full of 
filth and corruption ; the idea of their reformation composed, 
their repentance sick and faulty, very nearly as much as their 
sin. Some, either from having been linked to vice by a natural 
propension or long practice, cannot see its deformity. Others 
(of which constitution I am) do indeed feel the weight of 
vice, but they counterbalance it with pleasure, or some other 
occasion ; and suffer and lend themselves to it for a certain 



14 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

price, but viciously and basely. Yet there might, haply, be 
imagined so vast a disproportion of measure, where with jus- 
tice the pleasure might excuse the sin, as we say of utility ; 
not only if accidental, and out of sin, as in thefts, but in the 
very exercise of sin, as in the enjoyment of women, where 
the temptation is violent, and 't is said, sometimes not to be 
overcome. 

Being the other day at Armaignac, on the estate of a kins- 
man of mine, I there saw^ a peasant who was by every one 
nicknamed the thief. He thus related the story of his life : 
that, being born a beggar, and finding that he should not be 
able, so as to be clear of indigence, to get his living by the 
sweat of his brow, he resolved to turn thief, and by means of 
his strength of body had exercised this trade all the time of 
his youth in great security ; for he ever made his harvest and 
vintage in other men's grounds, but a great way off, and in so 
great quantities, that it was not to be imagined one man could 
have carried away so much in one night upon his shoulders ; 
and, moreover, he was careful equally to divide and distribute 
the mischief he did, that the loss was of less importance to 
every particular man. He is now grown old, and rich for a 
man of his condition, thanks to his trade, which he openly 
confesses to every one. And to make his peace with God, he 
says, that he is daily ready by good offices to make satisfaction 
to the successors of those he has robbed, and if he do not 
finish (for to do it all at once he is not able), he will then 
leave it in charge to his heirs to perform the rest, proportion- 
ably to the wrong he himself only knows he has done to each. 
By this description, true or false, this man looks upon theft as 
a dishonest action, and hates it, but less than poverty, and 
simply repents ; but to the extent he has thus recompensed 
he repents not. This is not that habit which incorporates us 
into vice, and conforms even our understanding itself to it ; 
nor is it that impetuous whirlwind that by gusts troubles and 
blinds our souls, and for the time precipitates us, judgment 
and all, into the power of vice. 



MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE 15 

I customarily do what I do thoroughly and make but one 
step on 't ; I have rarely any movement that hides itself and 
steals away from my reason, and that does not proceed in the 
matter by the consent of all my faculties, without division or 
intestine sedition ; my judgment is to have all the blame or 
all the praise ; and the blame it once has, it has always ; for 
almost from my infancy it has ever been one : the same in- 
clination, the same turn, the same force ; and as to universal 
opinions, I fixed myself from my childhood in the place where 
I resolved to stick. There are some sins that are impetuous, 
prompt, and sudden ; let us set them aside : but in these other 
sins so often repeated, deliberated, and contrived, whether sins 
of complexion or sins of profession and vocation, I cannot con- 
ceive that they should have so long been settled in the same 
resolution, unless the reason and conscience of him who has 
them, be constant to have them ; and the repentance he boasts 
to be inspired with on a sudden, is very hard for me to imagine 
or form. I follow not the opinion of the Pythagorean sect, 
"that men take up a new soul when they repair to the images 
of the gods to receive their oracles," unless he mean that it 
must needs be extrinsic, new, and lent for the time ; our own 
showing so little sign of purification and cleanness, fit for 
such an office. 

They act quite contrary to the stoical precepts, who do in- 
deed command us to correct the imperfections and vices we 
know ourselves guilty of, but forbid us therefore to disturb 
the repose of our souls : these make us believe that they have 
great grief and remorse within : but of amendment, correction, 
or interruption, they make nothing appear. It cannot be a 
cure if the malady be not wholly discharged ; if repentance 
were laid upon the scale of the balance, it would weigh down 
sin. I find no quality so easy to counterfeit as devotion, if 
men do not conform their manners and life to the profession ; 
its essence is abstruse and occult ; the appearances easy and 
ostentatious. 

For my own part, I may desire in general to be other than 



1 6 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

I am ; I may condemn and dislike my whole form, and beg 
of Almighty God for an entire reformation, and that He will 
please to pardon my natural infirmity : but I ought not to call 
this repentance, methinks, no more than the being dissatisfied 
that I am not an angel or Cato. My actions are regular, and 
conformable to what I am and to my condition ; I can do no 
better ; and repentance does not properly touch things that are 
not in our power ; sorrow does. I imagine an infinite number 
of natures more elevated and regular than mine ; and yet I do 
not for all that improve my faculties, no more than my arm 
or will grow more strong and vigorous for conceiving those 
of another to be so. If to conceive and wish a nobler way of 
acting than that we have should produce a repentance of our 
own, we must then repent us of our most innocent actions, 
forasmuch as we may well suppose that in a more excellent 
nature they would have been carried on with greater dignity 
and perfection ; and we would that ours were so. When I 
reflect upon the deportment of my youth, with that of my old 
age, I find that I have commonly behaved myself with equal 
order in both, according to what I understand : this is all that 
my resistance can do. I do not flatter myself ; in the same 
circumstances I should do the same things. It is not a patch, 
but rather an universal tincture, with which I am stained. I 
know no repentance, superficial, half-way, and ceremonious ; it 
must sting me all over before I can call it so, and must prick 
my bowels as deeply and universally as God sees into me. 

As to business, many excellent opportunities have escaped 
me for want of good management ; and yet my deliberations 
were sound enough, according to the occurrences presented to 
me : 't is their way to choose always the easiest and safest 
course. I find that, in my former resolves, I have proceeded 
with discretion, according to my own rule, and according to 
the state of the subject proposed, and should do the same 
a thousand years hence in like occasions ; I do not consider 
what it is now, but what it was then, when I deliberated on 
it : the force of all counsel consists in the time ; occasions and 



MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE 17 

things eternally shift and change. I have in my life committed 
some important errors, not for want of good understanding, 
but for want of good luck. There are secret, and not to be 
foreseen, parts in matters we have in hand, especially in the 
nature of men ; mute conditions, that make no show, unknown 
sometimes even to the possessors themselves, that spring and 
start up by incidental occasions ; if my prudence could not 
penetrate into nor foresee them, I blame it not : 't is com- 
missioned no further than its own limits ; if the event be too 
hard for me, and take the side I have refused, there is no 
remedy ; I do not blame myself, I accuse my fortune, and not 
my work ; this cannot be called repentance. 

Phocion, having given the Athenians an advice that was not 
followed, and the affair nevertheless succeeding contrary to his 
opinion, some one said to him, " Well, Phocion, art thou con- 
tent that matters go so well ? '' ''I am very well content," 
replied he, '' that this has happened so well, but I do not 
repent that I counselled the other." When any of my friends 
address themselves to me for advice, I give it candidly and 
clearly, without sticking, as almost all other men do, at the 
hazard of the thing's falling out contrary to my opinion, and 
that I may be reproached for my counsel ; I am very indif- 
ferent as to that, for the fault will be theirs for having con- 
sulted me, and I could not refuse them that office. 

I, for my own part, can rarely blame anyone but myself for 
my oversights and misfortunes, for indeed I seldom solicit the 
advice of another, if not by honour of ceremony, or except- 
ing where I stand in need of information, special science, or 
as to matter of fact. But in things wherein I stand in need 
of nothing but judgment, other men's reasons may serve to 
fortify my own, but have little power to dissuade me ; I hear 
them all with civility and patience : but, to my recollection, I 
never made use of any but my own. With me, they are but 
flies and atoms, that confound and distract my will ; I lay no 
great stress upon my opinions ; but I lay as little upon those 
of others, and fortune rewards me accordingly : if I receive but 



1 8 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

little advice, I also give but little. I am seldom consulted, and 
still more seldom believed, and know no concern, either public 
or private, that has been mended or bettered by my advice. 
Even they whom fortune had in some sort tied to my direc- 
tion, have more willingly suffered themselves to be governed 
by any other counsels than mine. And as a man who am as 
jealous of my repose as of my authority, I am better pleased 
that it should be so ; in leaving me there, they humour what 
I profess, which is to settle and wholly contain myself within 
myself. I take a pleasure in being uninterested in other 
men's affairs, and disengaged from being their warranty, and 
responsible for what they do. 

In all affairs that are past, be it how it will, I have very little 
regret ; for this imagination puts me out of my pain, that they 
were so to fall out : they are in the great revolution of the 
world, and in the chain of stoical causes : your fancy cannot, 
by wish and imagination, move one tittle, but that the great 
current of things will not reverse both the past and the future. 

As to the rest, I abominate that incidental repentance which 
old age brings along with it. He, who said of old, that he 
was obliged to his age for having weaned him from pleasure, 
was of another opinion than I am ; I can never think myself 
beholden to impotency for any good it can do to me : 

Nee tarn aversa unquam videbitur ab opere suo providentia, ut debilitas 
inter optima inventa sit. 

Our appetites are rare in old age ; a profound satiety seizes us 
after the act ; in this I see nothing of conscience ; chagrin and 
weakness imprint in us a drowsy and rheumatic virtue. We 
must not suffer ourselves to be so wholly carried away by natu- 
ral alterations as to suffer our judgments to be imposed upon 
by them. Youth and pleasure have not formerly so far pre- 
vailed with me, that I did not well enough discern the face 
of vice in pleasure ; neither does the distaste that years have 
brought me, so far prevail with me now, that I cannot discern 
pleasure in vice. Now that I am no more in my flourishing 



MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE 19 

age, I judge as well of these things as if I were. I, who nar- 
rowly and strictly examine it, find my reason the very same it 
was in my most licentious age, except, perhaps, that 't is weaker 
and more decayed by being grown older ; and I find that the 
pleasure it refuses me upon the account of my bodily health, 
it would no more refuse now, in consideration of the health 
of my soul, than at any time heretofore. I do not repute it 
the more valiant for not being able to combat ; my temptations 
are so broken and mortified, that they are not worth its oppo- 
sition ; holding but out my hands, I repel them. Should one 
present the old concupiscence before it, I fear it would have 
less power to resist it than heretofore ; I do not discern that 
in itself it judges anything otherwise now, than it formerly 
did, nor that it has acquired any new light : wherefore, if there 
be convalescence, 't is an enchanted one. Miserable kind of 
remedy, to owe one's health to one's disease ! 'T is not that 
our misfortune should perform this office, but the good for- 
tune of our judgment. I am not to be made to do anything 
by persecutions and afflictions, but to curse them : that is for 
people who cannot be roused but by a whip. My reason is 
much more free in prosperity, and much more distracted, and 
put to't to digest pains than pleasures : I see best in a clear 
sky ; health admonishes me more cheerfully, and to better 
purpose, than sickness. I did all that in me lay to reform and 
regulate myself from pleasures, at a time w^hen I had health 
and vigour to enjoy them ; I should be ashamed and envious 
that the misery and misfortune of my old age should have 
credit over my good, healthful, sprightly, and vigorous years ; 
and that men should estimate me, not by what I have been, 
but by what I have ceased to be. 

In my opinion, 'tis the happy living, and not (as Antis- 
thenes said) the happy dying, in which human felicity con- 
sists. I have not made it my business to make a monstrous 
addition of a philosopher's tail to the head and body of a 
libertine ; nor would I have this wretched remainder give the 
lie to the pleasant, sound, and long part of my life : I would 



20 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

present myself uniformly throughout. Were I to live my life 
over again, I should live it just as I have lived it ; I neither 
complain of the past, nor do I fear the future ; and if I am 
not much deceived, I am the same within that I am without. 
'T is one main obligation I have to my fortune, that the suc- 
cession of my bodily estate has been carried on according to 
the natural seasons ; I have seen the grass, the blossom, and 
the fruit, and now see the withering ; happily, however, be- 
cause naturally. I bear the infirmities I have the better, be- 
cause they came not till I had reason to expect them, and 
because also they make me with greater pleasure remember 
that long felicity of my past life. My wisdom may have been 
just the same in both ages ; but it was more active, and of 
better grace whilst young and sprightly, than now it is when 
broken, peevish, and uneasy. I repudiate, then, these casual 
and painful reformations. God must touch our hearts ; our 
consciences must amend of themselves, by the aid of our 
reason, and not by the decay of our appetites ; pleasure is, in 
itself, neither pale nor discoloured, to be discerned by dim 
and decayed eyes. 

We ought to love temperance for itself, and because God 
has commanded that and chastity ; but that which we are re- 
duced to by catarrhs, and for which I am indebted to the stone, 
is neither chastity nor temperance ; a man cannot boast that 
he despises and resists pleasure, if he cannot see it, if he 
knows not what it is, and cannot discern its graces, its force, 
and most alluring beauties ; I know both the one and the 
other, and may therefore the better say it. But, methinks, our 
souls in old age are subject to more troublesome maladies and 
imperfections than in youth ; I said the same when young and 
when I was reproached with the want of a beard ; and I say 
so now that my grey hairs give me some authority. We call 
the difficulty of our humours and the disrelish of present 
things wisdom ; but, in truth, we do not so much forsake vices 
as we change them, and, in my opinion, for worse. Besides 
a foolish and feeble pride, an impertinent prating, froward 



MICHEL I)E MONTAIGNE 21 

and insociable humours, superstition, and a ridiculous desire of 
riches when we have lost the use of them, I find there more 
envy, injustice, and malice. Age imprints more wrinkles in 
the mind than it does on the face ; and souls are never, or 
very rarely seen, that, in growing old, do not smell sour and 
musty. Man moves all together, both towards his perfection 
and decay. In observing the wisdom of Socrates, and many 
circumstances of his condemnation, I should dare to believe 
that he in some sort himself purposely, by collusion, con- 
tributed to it, seeing that, at the age of seventy years, he 
might fear to suffer the lofty motions of his mind to be 
cramped and his wonted lustre obscured. What strange meta- 
morphoses do I see age every day make in many of my 
acquaintance ! 'T is a potent malady, and that naturally and 
imperceptibly steals into us ; a vast provision of study and 
great precaution are required to evade the imperfections it 
loads us with, or at least to weaken their progress. I find 
that, notwithstanding all my entrenchments, it gets foot by 
foot upon me : I make the best resistance I can, but I do 
not know to what at last it will reduce me. But fall out what 
will, I am content the world may know, when I am fallen, 
from what I fell. 



SIR FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626) 

OF STUDIES 

(1597) 

Studies serve for pastimes, for ornaments, and for abilities. 
Their chief use for pastime is in privateness and retiring ; for 
ornament is in discourse, and for abiHty is in judgment. For 
expert men can execute, but learned men are fittest to judge 
or censure. 

To spend too much time in them is sloth ; to use them too 
much for ornament is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by 
their rules is the humour of a scholar. 

They perfect nature, and are perfected by experience. 

Crafty men contemn them, simple men admire them, wise 
men use them : for they teach not their own use, but that is a 
wisdom without them and above them, won by observation. 

Read not to contradict, nor to believe, but to weigh and 
consider. 

Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and 
some few to be chewed and digested : that is, some books are 
to be read only in parts ; others to be read, but cursorily, and 
some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. 

Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and 
writing an exact man. And therefore if a man write little, he 
had need have a great memory ; if he confer little, he had 
need have a present wit ; and if he read little, he had need have 
much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. 

Histories make men wise, poets witty, the mathematics sub- 
tle, natural philosophy deep, moral grave, logic and rhetoric 
able to contend. 

22 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 23 

(1625) 

Studies serve for delight, for ornament and for ability. 
Their chief use for delight is in privateness, and retiring ; for 
ornament, is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgment 
and disposition of business. For expert men can execute, and 
perhaps judge of particulars, one by one ; but the general 
counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs, come best 
from those that are learned. To spend too much time in stud- 
ies is sloth ; to use them too much for ornament is affectation ; 
to make judgment wholly by their rules is the humour of a 
scholar. They perfect nature, and are perfected by experience : 
for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need proyning 
by study ; and studies themselves do give forth directions 
too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. 
Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and 
wise men use them : for they teach not their own use ; but that 
is a wisdom without them and above them, won by observation. 
Read not to contradict and confute ; nor to believe and take 
for granted ; nor to find talk and discourse ; but to weigh and 
consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, 
and some few to be chewed and digested ; that is, some books 
are to be read only in parts ; others to be read, but not curi- 
ously ; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and 
attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and ex- 
tracts made of them by others ; but that would be only in the 
less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books ; else 
distilled books are like common distilled waters, flashy things. 
Reading maketh a full man ; conference a ready man ; and 
writing an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, 
he had need have a great memory ; if he confer little, he had 
need have a present wit ; and if he read little, he had need 
have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. His- 
tories make men wise ; poets witty ; the mathematics subtile ; 
natural philosophy deep ; moral grave ; logic and rhetoric able 
to contend. Abcunt stiidia in mores. Nay, there is no stond 



24 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

or impediment in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit stud- 
ies : Uke as diseases of the body may have appropriate exer- 
cises. Bowhng is good for the stone and reins ; shooting for 
the lungs and breast ; gentle walking for the stomach ; riding 
for the head ; and the like. So if a man's wit be wandering, 
let him study the mathematics ; for in demonstrations, if his 
wit be called away never so little, he must begin again. If his 
wit be not apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study 
the schoolmen ; for they are cymiiii sec tores. If he be not apt 
to beat over matters, and to call up one thing to prove and 
illustrate another, let him study the lawyers' cases. So every 
defect of the mind may have a special receipt. 



OF EMPIRE 

(1612) 

It is a miserable state of mind to have few things to desire 
and many things to fear ; and yet that commonly is the case 
of kings ; who, being at the highest, want matter of desire, 
which makes their minds the more languishing ; and have 
many representations of perils and shadows, which makes their 
minds the less clear. And this is one reason also of that effect 
which the Scripture speaketh of, That the king s heart is in- 
scmtable. For multitude of jealousies, and lack of some pre- 
dominant desire that should marshal and put in order all the 
rest, maketh any man's heart hard to find or sound. Hence 
Cometh it likewise that princes many times make themselves 
desires, and set their hearts upon toys : sometimes upon a build- 
ing ; sometimes upon an order ; sometimes upon the advancing 
of a person ; sometimes upon obtaining excellency in some art 
or feat of the hand ; and such like things, which seem incred- 
ible to those that know not the principle, TJiat the mind of 
man is more cheered and refreshed by profiting in small 
things than by standing at a stay in great. Therefore great 
and fortunate conquerors in their first years turn melancholy 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 25 

and superstitious in their latter ; as did Alexander the Great, 
and in our memory Charles the Fifth, and many others. For 
he that is used to go forward, and findeth a stop, falleth out 
of his own favour. A true temper of government is a rare 
thing ; for both temper and distemper consist of contraries. 
But it is one thing to mingle contraries, another to interchange 
them. The answer of Apollonius to Vespasian is full of ex- 
cellent instruction. Vespasian asked him. What was Nero s 
overt hi'oiv f He answered : Nero could touch and tune the harp 
well ; but ifi government sometimes he used to ivind the pins 
too high, and sometimes to let them doivn too hnv. And cer- 
tain it is that nothing destroyeth authority so much as the 
unequal and untimely interchange of pressing power and relax- 
ing power. The wisdom of all these latter times in princes' 
affairs is rather fine deliveries and shiftings of dangers and 
mischiefs when they are near, than solid and grounded courses 
to keep them aloof. But let men beware how they neglect and 
suffer matter of trouble to be prepared ; for no man can for- 
bid the spark, nor tell whence it may come. The difficultness 
in princes' business are many times great ; but the greatest 
difficulty is often in their own mind. For it is common with 
princes (saith Tacitus) to will contradictories : Sunt plerumque 
regum voluntates vehementes^ et inter se contrarice. For it is 
the solecism of power, to think to command the end, and yet 
not to endure the mean. Princes are like to the heavenly bodies, 
which cause good or evil times ; and which have much vener- 
ation, but no rest. All precepts concerning kings are in effect 
comprehended in those two remembrances : Memento quod es 
homo, and Memento quod es Deus or vice Dei : the one to 
bridle their power, and the other their will. 

(1625) 

It is a miserable state of mind to have few things to desire 
and many things to fear ; and yet that commonly is the case 
of kings ; who, being at the highest, want matter of desire, 
which makes their minds more languishing ; and have many 



26 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

representations of perils and shadows, which makes their minds 
the less clear. And this is one reason also of that effect which 
the Scripture speaketh of, That the king s heart is inscrutable. 
For multitude of jealousies, and lack of some predominant 
desire that should marshal and put in order all the rest, mak- 
eth any man's heart hard to find or sound. Hence it comes 
likewise that princes many times make themselves desires, and 
set their hearts upon toys : sometimes upon a building ; some- 
times upon erecting of an order ; sometimes upon the advanc- 
ing of a person ; sometimes upon obtaining excellency in some 
art or feat of the hand ; as Nero for playing on the harp, 
Domitian for certainty of the hand with the arrow, Commodus 
for playing at fence, Caracalla for driving chariots, and the like. 
This seemeth incredible unto those that know not the princi- 
ple, that the mind of man is more cheered ajid refreshed by 
profiting in small things than by standing at a stay iii great. 
We see also that kings that have been fortunate conquerors in 
their first years, it being not possible for them to go forward 
infinitely, but that they must have some check or arrest in 
their fortunes, turn in their latter years to be superstitious 
and melancholy ; as did Alexander the Great, Diocletian, and 
in our memory Charles the Fifth, and others : for he that is 
used to go forward, and findeth a stop, falleth out of his own 
favour, and is not the thing he was. 

To speak now of the true temper of empire : it, is a thing 
rare, and hard to keep ; for both temper and distemper con- 
sist of contraries. But it is one thing to mingle contraries, 
another to interchange them. The answer of Apollonius to 
Vespasian is full of excellent instruction. Vespasian asked 
him. What was Nero's overthrow f He answered, Nero could 
touch and time the harp zuell ; but in government sometimes 
he used to wind the pins too high, sometimes to let them down 
too low. And certain it is that nothing destroyeth authority 
so much as the unequal and untimely interchange of power 
pressed too far, and relaxed too much. 

This is true, that the wisdom of all these latter . times in 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 27 

princes' affairs is rather fine deliveries and shiftings of dangers 
and mischiefs when they are near, than sohd and grounded 
courses to keep them aloof. But this is but to try masteries 
with fortune. And let men beware how they neglect and suffer 
matter of trouble to be prepared ; for no man can forbid the 
spark, nor tell whence it may come. The difficulties in princes' 
business are many and great ; but the greatest difficulty is 
often in their own mind. For it is common with princes (saith 
Tacitus) to will contradictories : Sjint plerumqtte regitm vol- 
tmtates vehementes^ et inter sc contrarice. For it is the sole- 
cism of power, to think to command the end, and yet not to 
endure the mean. 

Kings have to deal with their neighbours, their wives, their 
children, their prelates or clergy, their nobles, their second- 
nobles or gentlemen, their merchants, their commons, and 
their men of war ; and from all these arise dangers, if care 
and circumspection be not used. 

First for their neighbours ; there can no general rule be 
given (the occasions are so variable), save one, which ever 
holdeth ; which is, that princes do keep due sentinel, that none 
of their neighbours do overgrow so (by increase of territory, by 
embracing of trade, by approaches, or the like) as they become 
more able to annoy them than they were. And this is gener- 
ally the work of standing councils to foresee and to hinder it. 
During that triumvirate of kings. King Henry the Eighth of 
England, Francis the First King of France, and Charles the 
Fifth Emperor, there was such a watch kept, that none of the 
three could win a palm of ground, but the other two would 
straightways balance it, either by confederation, or, if need 
were, by a war ; and would not in any wise take up peace at 
interest. And the like was done by that league (which Guic- 
ciardine saith was the security of Italy) made between Ferdi- 
nando King of Naples, Lorenzius Medices, and Ludovicus 
Sforza, potentates, the one of Florence, the other of Milan. 
Neither is the opinion of some of the schoolmen to be received, 
that a zvar cannot justly be made btU tLpon a precedent injury 



28 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

or provocation. For there is no question but a just fear of an 
imminent danger, though there be no blow given, is a lawful 
cause of a war. 

For their wives ; there are cruel examples of them. Livia is 
infamed for the poisoning of her husband ; Roxalana, Soly- 
man's wife, was the destruction of that renowned prince Sultan 
Mustapha, and otherwise troubled his house and succession ; 
Edward the Second of England his queen had the principal 
hand in the deposing and murther of her husband. This kind 
of danger is then to be feared chiefly, when the wives have 
plots for the raising of their own children, or else that they 
be advoutresses. 

For their children ; the tragedies likewise of dangers from 
them have been many. And generally, the entering of fathers 
into suspicion of their children hath been ever unfortunate. 
The destruction of Mustapha (that we named before) was so 
fatal to Solyman's line, as the succession of the Turks from 
Solyman until this day is suspected to be untrue, and of strange 
blood ; for that Selymus the Second was thought to be sup- 
posititious. The destruction of Crispus, a young prince of rare 
towardness, by Constantinus the Great, his father, was in like 
manner fatal to his house ; for both Constantinus and Con- 
stance, his sons, died violent deaths ; and Constantius, his other 
son, did little better ; who died indeed of sickness, but after 
that Julianus had taken arms against him. The destruction of 
Demetrius, son to Philip the Second of Macedon, turned upon 
the father, who died of repentance. And many like examples 
there are ; but few or none where the fathers had good by such 
distrust ; except it were where the sons were up in open arms 
against them ; as was Selymus the First against Bajazet ; and 
the three sons of Henry the Second, King of England. 

For their prelates ; when they are proud and great, there is 
also danger from them ; as it was in the times of Anselmus 
and Thomas Becket, Archbishops of Canterbury ; who with 
their crosiers did almost try it with the king's sword ; and yet 
they had to deal with stout and haughty kings, William Rufus, 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 29 

Henry the First, and Henry the Second. The danger is not 
from that state, but where it hath a dependence of foreign 
authority ; or where the churchmen come in and are elected, 
not by the collation of the king, or particular patrons, but by 
the people. 

F'or their nobles ; to keep them at a distance, it is not amiss ; 
but to depress them may make a king more absolute, but less 
safe, and less able to perform anything that he desires. I have 
noted it in my history of King Henry the Seventh of England, 
who depressed his nobility ; whereupon it came to pass that his 
times were full of difficulties and troubles ; for the nobility, 
though they continued loyal unto him, yet did they not co- 
operate with him in his business. So that in effect he was fain 
to do all things himself. 

For their second-nobles ; there is not much danger from 
them, being a body dispersed. They may sometimes discourse 
high, but that doth little hurt ; besides, they are a counterpoise 
to the higher nobility, that they grow not too potent ; and, 
lastly, being the most immediate in authority with the common 
people, they do best temper popular commotions. 

For their merchants ; they are vena porta ; and if they 
flourish not, a kingdom may have good limbs, but will have 
empty veins, and nourish little. Taxes and imposts upon them 
do seldom good to the king's revenue ; for that that he wins in 
the hundred he leeseth in the shire ; the particular rates being 
increased, but the total bulk of trading rather decreased. 

F^or their commons ; there is little danger from them, except 
it be where they have great and potent heads ; or where you 
meddle with the point of religion, or their customs, or means 
of life. 

For their men of war ; it is a dangerous state where they 
live and remain in a body, and are used to donatives ; whereof 
we see examples in the janizaries, and pretorian bands of 
Rome : but trainings of men, and arming them in several 
places, and under several commanders, and without donatives, 
are things of defence, and no danger. 



30 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Princes are like to heavenly bodies, which cause good or 
evil times ; and which have much veneration, but no rest. 
All precepts concerning kings are in effect comprehended in 
those two remembrances : Memento qiLod es homo, and Me- 
mento quod es Detis, or vice Dei : the one bridleth their power, 
and the other their will. 

OF TRUTH 

(1625) 

What is truth f said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for 
an answer. Certainly there be that delight in giddiness, and 
count it a bondage to fix a belief ; affecting free-will in think- 
ing, as well as in acting. And though the sects of philosophers 
of that kind be gone, yet there remain certain discoursing wits 
which are of the same veins, though there be not so much 
blood in them as was in those of the ancients. But it is not 
only the difficulty and labour which men take in finding out of 
truth, nor again that when it is found it imposeth upon men's 
thoughts, that doth bring lies in favour ; but a natural though 
corrupt love of the lie itself. One of the later school of the 
Grecians examineth the matter, and is at a stand to think what 
should be in it, that men should love lies, where neither they 
make for pleasure, as with poets, nor for advantage, as with the 
merchant, but for the lie's sake. But I cannot tell : this same 
truth is a naked and open day-light, that doth not shew the 
masques and mummeries and triumphs of the world half so 
stately and daintily as candle-lights. Truth may perhaps come 
to the price of a pearl, that sheweth best by day ; but it will 
not rise to the price of a diamond or carbuncle, that sheweth 
best in varied lights. A mixture of a lie doth ever add pleas- 
ure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken out of 
men's minds vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, 
imaginations as one would, and the like, but it would leave the 
minds of a number of men poor shrunken things, full of mel- 
ancholy and indisposition, and unpleasing to themselves t One 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 31 

of the Fathers, in great severity, called poesy vinum dcemomim, 
because it filleth the imagination ; and yet it is but with the 
shadow of a lie. But it is not the lie that passeth through the 
mind, but the lie that sinketh in and settleth in it, that doth 
the hurt,' such as we spake of before. But howsoever these 
things are thus in men's depraved judgments and affections, 
yet truth, which only doth judge itself, teacheth that the in- 
quiry of truth, which is the love-making or wooing of it, the 
knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it, and the be- 
lief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good 
of human nature. The first creature of God, in the works of 
the days, was the light of the sense ; the last was the light of 
reason ; and his sabbath work ever since, is the illumination 
of his Spirit. First he breathed light upon the face of the 
matter or chaos ; then he breathed light into the face of man ; 
and still he breatheth and inspireth light into the face of his 
chosen. The poet that beautified the sect that was otherwise 
inferior to the rest, saith yet excellently well : It is a pleasure 
to stand upon the shore ^ and to see ships tossed tcpon the sea ; 
a pleasure to stand in the ivindow of a castle, and to see a 
battle and the adventures thereof below : but no pleasure is 
comparable to the standing upon the vantage ground of Truth 
(a hill not to be commanded, and where the air is always clear 
and serene), and to see the errors, and wanderings, and mists, 
and tempests, in the vale belozv ; so always that this prospect 
be with pity, and not with swelling or pride. Certainly, it is 
heaven upon earth, to have a man's mind move in charity, 
rest in providence, and turn upon the poles of truth. 

To pass from theological and philosophical truth to the truth 
of civil business : it will be acknowledged, even by those that 
practise it not, that clear and round dealing is the honour of 
man's nature ; and that mixture of falsehood is like allay in 
coin of gold and silver, which may make the metal work the 
better, but it embaseth it. For these winding and crooked 
courses are the goings of the serpent ; which goeth basely 
upon the belly, and not upon the feet. There is no vice that 



32 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

doth so cover a man with shame as to be found false and per- 
fidious. And therefore Montaigne saith prettily, when he in- 
quired the reason why the word of the lie should be such a 
disgrace and such an odious charge ? Saith he, If it be well 
weighed, to say that a man lieth is as much to say as that 
he is brave tozuards God and a coward tozvards men. For 
a lie faces God, and shrinks from man. Surely the wicked- 
ness of falsehood and breach of faith cannot possibly be so 
highly expressed, as in that it shall be the last peal to call 
the judgments of God upon the generations of men ; it being 
foretold, that when Christ cometh, he shall not find faitJi npon 
the earth, 

OF DEATH 

(1625) 

Men fear Death as children fear to go in the dark ; and as 
that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the 
other. Certainly, the contemplation of death, as the wages of 
sin and passage to another w^orld, is holy and religious ; but 
the fear of it, as a tribute due unto nature, is weak. Yet in 
religious meditations there is sometimes mixture of vanity and 
of superstition. You shall read in some of the friars' books 
of mortification, that a man should think with himself what 
the pain is if he have but his finger's end pressed or tortured, 
and thereby imagine what the pains of death are, when the 
whole body is corrupted and dissolved ; when many times 
death passeth with less pain than the torture of a limb ; for 
the most vital parts are not the quickest of sense. And by 
him that spake only as a philosopher and natural man, it was 
well said, Ponipa mortis magis terret qnam mors ipsa. Groans 
and convulsions, and a discoloured face, and friends weeping, 
and blacks, and obsequies, and the like, shew death terrible. 
It is worthy the observing, that there is no passion in the 
mind of man so weak, but it mates and masters the fear of 
death ; and therefore death is no such terrible enemy w^hen 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 33 

a man hath so many attendants about him that can win the 
combat of him. Revenge triumphs over death ; love sHghts it ; 
honour aspireth to it ; grief flieth to it ; fear pre-occupateth it ; 
nay, we read, after Otho the Emperor had slain himself, pity 
(which is the tenderest of affections) provoked many to die, 
out of mere compassion to their sovereign, and as the truest 
sort of followers. Nay, Seneca adds niceness and satiety : 
Cogita qiiamdiiL eadeni feceris ; mori velle, non tantimi fortis, 
ant miser, sed etiaiii fastidiosus potest. A man would die, 
though he were neither valiant nor miserable, only upon a 
weariness to do the same thing so oft over and over. It is 
no less worthy to observe, how little alteration in good spirits 
the approaches of death make ; for they appear to be the same 
men till the last instant. Augustus Caesar died in a compli- 
ment : Livia, eonjiigii nostri niemor, vive et vale. Tiberius 
in dissimulation, as Tacitus saith of him : Iain Tiberiimi vires 
et corpus, non dissimnlatio, deserebant. Vespasian in a jest, 
sitting upon the stool : Ut pnto Dens fio, Galba with a sen- 
tence, Feri, si ex re sit populi Romani, holding forth his neck. 
Septimius Severus in dispatch : Adeste si quid niihi restat 
agendum. And the like. Certainly the Stoics bestowed too 
much cost upon death, and by their great preparations made 
it appear more fearful. Better, saith he, qui fine^n vitce ex- 
tremnm inter nitmera ponat Natttrce. It is as natural to die 
as to be born ; and to a little infant, perhaps, the one is as 
painful as the other. He that dies in an earnest pursuit is 
like one that is wounded in hot blood ; who, for the time, 
scarce feels the hurt ; and therefore a mind fixed and bent 
upon somewhat that is good doth avert the dolours of death. 
But above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is Nnnc diniit- 
tis ; when a man hath obtained worthy ends and expectations. 
Death hath this also, that it openeth the gate to good fame, 
and extinguisheth envy. Ex ti) ictus aniabitur idem. 



34 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

OF ADVERSITY 

(1625) 

It was an high speech of Seneca (after the manner of the 
Stoics) : TJiat the good things which belong to prosperity are 
to be ivished ; but the good things that belojig to adversity 
are to be admired. Bona reriLm sectmdanmi optabilia, adver- 
sarnm mirabilia.- Certainly, if miracles be the command over 
nature, they appear most in adversity. It is yet a higher speech 
of his than the other (much too high for a heathen) : // is 
trice greatness to have in one the frailty of a man, and the 
security of a god. Vere magmmi habere fragilitateni hominis, 
secnritatem dei. This would have done better in poesy, where 
J;ranscendences are more allowed. And the poets indeed have 
been busy with it ; for it is in effect the thing which is figured 
in that strange fiction of the ancient poets, which seemeth not 
to be without mystery ; nay, and to have some approach to the 
state of a Christian : that Her cities, when he went to nnbind 
Prometheus (by whom human nature is represented), sailed the 
length of tJie great ocean in aii earthen pot or pitcher : lively 
describing Christian resolution, that saileth in the frail bark of 
the- flesh thorough the waves of the world. But to speak in a 
mean. The virtue of prosperity is temperance ; the virtue of 
adversity is fortitude ; which in morals is the more heroical 
virtue. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament ; ad- 
versity is the blessing of the New ; which carrieth the greater 
benediction, and the clearer revelation of God's favour. Yet 
even in the Old Testament, if you listen to David's harp, you 
shall hear as many hearse-like airs as carols ; and the pencil 
of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more in describing the afflic- 
tions of Job than the felicities of Salomon. Prosperity is not 
without many fears and distastes ; and adversity is not without 
comforts and hopes. We see in needleworks and embroid- 
eries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and 
solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work 
upon a lightsome ground : judge therefore of the pleasure of 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 35 

the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like 
precious odours, most fragrant when they are incensed or 
crushed : for prosperity doth best discover vice ; but adversity 
doth best discover virtue. 



OF ENVY 
(1625) 

There be none of the affections which have been noted to 
fascinate or bewitch, but love and envy. They both have vehe- 
ment wishes ; they frame themselves readily into imaginations 
and suggestions ^ and they come easily into the eye, espe- 
cially upon the presence of the objects ; which are the points 
that conduce to fascination, if any such thing there be. We 
see likewise the Scripture calleth envy an evil eye ; and the 
astrologers call the evil influences of the stars evil aspects ; 
so that still there seemeth to be acknowledged, in the act of 
envy, an ejaculation or irradiation of the eye. Nay, some have 
been so curious as to note, that the times when the stroke or 
percussion of an envious eye doth most hurt, are when the 
party envied is beheld in glory or triumph ; for that sets an 
edge upon envy ; and besides, at such times the spirits of the 
person envied do come forth most into the outward parts, and 
so meet the blow. 

But leaving these curiosities (though not unworthy to be 
thought on in fit place), we will handle, what persons are apt 
to envy others ; what persons are most subject to be envied 
themselves ; and what is the difference between public and 
private envy. 

A man that hath no virtue in himself ever envieth virtue 
in others. For men's minds will either feed upon their own 
good or upon others' evil ; and who wanteth the one will prey 
upon the other ; and whoso is out of hope to attain to an- 
other's virtue will seek to come at even hand by depressing 
another's fortune. 

A man that is busy and inquisitive is commonly envious. 



36 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

For to know much of other men's matters cannot be because 
all that ado may concern his own estate ; therefore it must 
needs be that he taketh a kind of play-pleasure in looking 
upon the fortunes of others. Neither can he that mindeth but 
his own business find much matter for envy. F^or envy is a 
gadding passion, and walketh the streets, and doth not keep 
home : Non est airiosus, qnin idein sit iiialevohis. 

Men of noble birth are noted to be envious towards new 
men when they rise. F^or the distance is altered ; and it is 
like a deceit of the eye, that when others come on they think 
themselves go back. 

Deformed persons, and eunuchs, and old men, and bas- 
tards, are envious. Vox he that cannot possibly mend his own 
case will do w^hat he can to impair another's ; except these 
defects light upon a very brave and heroical nature, which 
thinketh to make his natural wants part of his honour ; in that 
it should be said, that an eunuch, or a lame man, did such 
great matters ; affecting the honour of a miracle ; as it was in 
Narses the eunuch, and Agesilaus and Tamberlanes, that were 
lame men. 

The same is the case of men that rise after calamities and 
misfortunes. P^or they are as men fallen out with the times, 
and think other men's harms a redemption of their own 
sufferings. 

They that desire to excel in too many matters, out of levity 
and vain-glory, are ever envious. For they cannot want work ; 
it being impossible but many in some one of those things 
should surpass them. Which was the character of Adrian the 
Emperor, that mortally envied poets and painters and artificers 
in works wherein he had a vein to excel. 

Lastly, near kinsfolks, and fellows in office, and those that 
have been bred together, are more apt to envy their equals 
when they are raised. F'or it doth upbraid unto them their 
own fortunes, and pointeth at them, and cometh oftener into 
their remembrance, and incurreth likewise more into the note 
of others ; and envy ever redoubleth from speech and fame. 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 37 

Cain's envy was the more vile and malignant towards his 
brother Abel, because when his sacrifice was better accepted 
there was nobody to look on. Thus much for those that are 
apt to envy. 

Concerning those that are more or less subject to envy : 
First, persons of eminent virtue, when they are advanced, are 
less envied. For their fortune seemeth but due unto them ; 
and no man envieth the payment of a debt, but rewards and 
liberality rather. Again, envy is ever joined with the comparing 
of a man's self ; and where there is no comparison, no envy ; 
and therefore kings are not envied but by kings. Nevertheless 
it is to be noted that unworthy persons are most envied at their 
first coming in, and afterwards overcome it better ; whereas, 
contrariwise, persons of worth and merit are most envied when 
their fortune continueth long. For by that time, though their 
virtue be the same, yet it hath not the same lustre ; for fresh 
men grow up that darken it. 

Persons of noble blood are less envied in their rising ; for it 
seemeth but right done to their birth. Besides, there seemeth 
not much added to their fortune ; and envy is as the sunbeams, 
that beat hotter upon a bank or steep rising ground, than upon 
a flat. And for the same reason those that are advanced by 
degrees are less envied than those that are advanced suddenly 
and per saltum. 

Those that have joined with their honour great travails, 
cares, or perils, are less subject to envy. For men think that 
they earn their honours hardly, and pity them sometimes ; and 
pity ever healeth envy. Wherefore you shall observe that the 
more deep and sober sort of politic persons, in their greatness, 
are ever bemoaning themselves, what a life they lead ; chanting 
a quanta patimiir. Not that they feel it so, but only to abate 
the edge of envy. But this is to be understood of business that 
is laid upon men, and not such as they call unto themselves. 
For nothing increaseth envy more than an unnecessary and am- 
bitious engrossing of business. And nothing doth extinguish 
envy more than for a great person to preserve all other inferior 



38 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

officers in their full rights and pre-eminences of their places. 
For by that means there be so many screens between him 
and envy. 

Above all, those are most subject to envy, which carry the 
greatness of their fortunes in an insolent and proud manner ; 
being never well but while they are shewing how great they 
are, either by outward pomp, or by triumphing over all oppo- 
sition or competition ; whereas wise men will rather do sacri- 
fice to envy, in suffering themselves sometimes of purpose to 
be crossed and overborne in things that do not much concern 
them. Notwithstanding, so much is true, that the carriage of 
greatness in a plain and open manner (so it be without arro- 
gancy and vain-glory) doth draw less envy than if it be in a 
more crafty and cunning fashion. For in that course a man 
doth but disavow fortune ; and seemeth to be conscious of his 
own want in worth ; and doth but teach others to envy him. 

Lastly, to conclude this part ; as we said in the beginning 
that the act of envy had somewhat in it of witchcraft, so there 
is no other cure of envy but the cure of witchcraft ; and that 
is, to remove the lot (as they call it) and to lay it upon another. 
For which purpose, the wiser sort of great persons bring in 
ever upon the stage somebody upon whom to derive the envy 
that would come upon themselves ; sometimes upon ministers 
and servants ; sometimes upon colleagues and associates ; and 
the like ; and for that turn there are never wanting some 
persons of violent and undertaking natures, who, so they may 
have power and business, will take it at any cost. 

Now to speak of public envy. There is yet some good in 
public envy, whereas in private there is none. For public 
envy is as an ostracism, that eclipseth men when they grow 
too great. And therefore it is a bridle also to great ones, to 
keep them within bounds. 

This envy, being in the Latin word invidia, goeth in the 
modern languages by the name of discontentment ; of which 
we shall speak in handling Sedition. It is a disease in a state 
like to infection. For as infection spreadeth upon that which 



_SiR FRANCIS BACON 39 

is sound, and tainteth it ; so when envy is gotten once into a 
state, it traduceth even the best actions thereof, and turneth 
them into an ill odour. And therefore there is little won by 
intermingling of plausible actions. For that doth argue but a 
weakness and fear of envy, which hurteth so much the more ; 
as it is likewise usual in infections ; which if you fear them, 
you call them upon you. 

This public envy seemeth to beat chiefly upon principal 
officers or ministers, rather than upon kings and estates them- 
selves. But this is a sure rule, that if the envy upon the min- 
ister be great, when the cause of it in him is small ; or if 
the envy be general in a manner upon all the ministers of an 
estate ; then the envy (though hidden) is truly upon the state 
itself. And so much of public envy or discontentment, and 
the difference thereof from private envy, which was handled 
in the first place. 

We will add this in general touching the affection of envy, 
that of all other affections it is the most importune and con- 
tinual. For of other affections there is occasion given but now 
and then ; and therefore it was well said, Invidia festos dies 
non agit : for it is ever working upon some or other. And it 
is also noted that love and envy do make a man pine, which 
other affections do not, because they are not so continual. It 
is also the vilest affection, and the most depraved ; for which 
cause it is the proper attribute of the devil, who is called The 
envioiLS man^ that sozveth tares ainongst the zvheat by night ; 
as it always cometh to pass, that envy worketh subtilly, and 
in the dark, and to the prejudice of good things, such as is 
the wheat. 

OF TRAVEL 

(1625) 

Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education ; in the 
elder, a part of experience. He that travelleth into a country 
before he hath some entrance into the language, goeth to 
school, and not to travel. That young men travel under 



40 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

some tutor, or grave servant, I allow well ; so that he be 
such a one that hath the language and hath been in the 
country before ; whereby he may be able to tell them what 
things are worthy to be seen in the country where they go ; 
what acquaintances they are to seek ; what exercises or dis- 
cipline the place yieldeth. For else young men shall go 
hooded, and look abroad little. It is a strange thing, that 
in sea-voyages, where there is nothing to be seen but sky and 
sea, men should make diaries ; but in land-travel, wherein so 
much is to be observed, for the most part they omit it ; as 
if chance were fitter to be registered than observation. Let 
diaries therefore be brought in use. The things to be seen 
and observed are : the courts of princes, specially when they 
give audience to ambassadors ; the courts of justice, while 
they sit and hear causes ; and so of consistories ecclesiastic ; 
the churches and monasteries, with the monuments which are 
therein extant ; the walls and fortifications of cities and towns, 
and so the havens and harbours ; antiquities and ruins ; libra- 
ries ; colleges, disputations, and lectures, where any are ; ship- 
ping and navies ; houses and gardens of state and pleasure, 
near great cities ; armories ; arsenals ; magazines ; exchanges ; 
bourses ; warehouses ; exercises of horsemanship, fencing, 
training of soldiers, and the like ; comedies, such whereunto 
the better sort of persons do resort ; treasuries of jewels and 
robes ; cabinets and rarities ; and, to conclude, whatsoever is 
memorable in the places where they go. After all which the 
tutors or servants ought to make diligent inquiry. As for 
triumphs, masques, feasts, weddings, funerals, capital execu- 
tions, and such shows, men need not to be put in mind of them ; 
yet are they not to be neglected. If you will have a young 
man to put his travel into a little room, and in short time to 
gather much, this you must do. First, as was said, he must 
have some entrance into the language, before he goeth. Then 
he must have such a servant or tutor as knoweth the country, 
as was likewise said. Let him carry with him also some card 
or book describing the country where he travelleth ; which 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 41 

will be a good key to his enquiry. Let him keep also a diary. 
Let him not stay long in one city or town ; more or less as 
the place deserveth, but not long ; nay, when he stayeth in 
one city or town, let him change his lodging from one end 
and part of the town to another ; which is a great adamant of 
acquaintance. Let him sequester himself from the company 
of his countrymen, and diet in such places where there is 
good company of the nation where he travelleth. Let him, 
upon his removes from one place to another, procure recom- 
mendation to some person of quality residing in the place 
whither he removeth ; that he may use his favour in those 
things he desireth to see or know. Thus he may abridge his 
travel with much profit. As for the acquaintance which is to 
be sought in travel ; that which is most of all profitable is 
acquaintance with the secretaries and employed men of am- 
bassadors ; for so in travelling in one country he shall suck 
the experience of many. Let him also see and visit eminent 
persons in all kinds, which are of great name abroad ; that 
he may be able to tell how the life agreeth with the fame. 
For quarrels, they are with care and discretion to be avoided : 
they are commonly for mistresses, healths, place, and words. 
And let a man beware how he keepeth company with choleric 
and quarrelsome persons ; for they will engage him into their 
own quarrels. When a traveller returneth home, let him not 
leave the countries where he hath travelled altogether behind 
him, but maintain a correspondence by letters with those of 
his acquaintance which are of most worth. And let his travel 
appear rather in his discourse than in his apparel or gesture ; 
and in his discourse let him be rather advised in his answers 
than forward to tell stories ; and let it appear that he doth 
not change his country manners for those of foreign parts, 
but only prick in some flowers of that he hath learned abroad 
into the customs of his own country. 



42 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

OF FRIENDSHIP 

(1625) 

It had been hard for him that spake it to have put more 
truth and untruth together in a few words, than in that speech, 
Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a zuild beast or a 
god. For it is most true that a natural and secret hatred and 
aversation towards society in any man, hath somewhat of the 
savage beast ; but it is most untrue that it should have any 
character at all of the divine nature ; except it proceed, not 
out of a pleasure in solitude, but out of a love and desire to 
sequester a man's self for a higher conversation : such as is 
found to have been falsely and feignedly in some of the 
heathen ; as Epimenides the Candian, Numa the Roman, 
Empedocles the Sicilian, and Apollonius of Tyana ; and truly 
and really in divers of the ancient hermits and holy fathers of 
the church. But little do men perceive what solitude is, and 
how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces 
are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, 
where there is no love. The Latin adage meeteth with it a 
little, Magna citntas, magna solitudo ; because in a great 
town friends are scattered ; so that there is not that fellowship, 
for the most part, which is in less neighbourhoods. But we 
may go further, and affirm most truly that it is a mere and 
miserable solitude to want true friends, without which the 
world is but a wilderness ; and even in this sense also of soli- 
tude, whosoever in the frame of his nature and affections is 
unfit for friendship, he taketh it of the beast, and not from 
humanity. 

A principal fruit of friendship is the ease and discharge of 
the fulness and swellings of the heart, which passions of all 
kinds do cause and induce. We know diseases of stoppings 
and suffocations are the most dangerous in the body ; and it 
is not much otherwise in the mind : you may take sarza to 
open the liver, steel to open the spleen, flower of sulphur for 
the lungs, castoreum for the brain ; but no receipt openeth 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 43 

the heart, but a true friend, to whom you may impart griefs, 
joys, fears, hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever Heth 
upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind of civil shrift or 
confession. 

It is a strange thing to observe how high a rate great kings 
and monarchs do set upon this fruit of friendship whereof we 
speak : so great, as they purchase it many times at the hazard 
of their own safety and greatness. For princes, in regard of 
the distance of their fortune from that of their subjects and 
servants, cannot gather this fruit, except (to make themselves 
capable thereof) they raise some persons to be as it were com- 
panions and almost equals to themselves, which many times 
sorteth to inconvenience. The modern languages give unto 
such persons the name of favourites, or privadoes ; as if it 
were matter of grace, or conversation. But the Roman name 
attaineth the true use and cause thereof, naming them par- 
ticipes ciirarum ; for it is that which tieth the knot. And we 
see plainly that this hath been done, not by weak and passion- 
ate princes only, but by the wisest and most politic that ever 
reigned ; who have oftentimes joined to themselves some of 
their servants, whom both themselves have called friends, and 
allowed others likewise to call them in the same manner, 
using the word which is received between private men. 

L. Sylla, when he commanded Rome, raised Pompey (after 
surnamed the Great) to that height, that Pompey vaunted him- 
self for Sylla's overmatch. F'or when he had carried the con- 
sulship for a friend of his, against the pursuit of Sylla, and 
that Sylla did a little resent thereat, and began to speak great, 
Pompey turned upon him again, and in effect bade him be 
quiet ; for that more niefi adored the sun rising than the snn 
setting. With Julius Caesar, Decimus Brutus had obtained 
that interest, as he set him down in his testament for heir in 
remainder after his nephew. And this was the man that had 
power with him to draw him forth to his death. For when 
Caesar would have discharged the senate, in regard of some 
ill presages, and specially a dream of Calpurnia, this man lifted 



44 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

him gently by the arm out of his chair, teUing him he hoped 
he would not dismiss the senate till his wife had dreamt a better 
dream. And it seemeth his favour was so great, as Antonius, 
in a letter which is recited verbatim in one of Cicero's Phil- 
ippics, calleth him venefica, ''witch " ; as if he had enchanted 
Caesar. Augustus raised Agrippa (though of mean birth) to 
that height, as, when he consulted with Maecenas about the 
marriage of his daughter Julia, Maecenas took the liberty to 
tell him, that he mitst either marry his daughter to Agrippa, 
or take away his life ; there was no third way, he had made 
him so great. With Tiberius Caesar, Sejanus had ascended to 
that height, as they two were termed and reckoned as a pair 
of friends. Tiberius in a letter to him saith, Hcec pro amicitid 
jiostrd lion occnltavi ; and the whole senate dedicated an altar 
to Friendship, as to a goddess, in respect of the great dear- 
ness of friendship between them two. The like or more was 
between Septimius Severus and Plautianus. For he forced his 
eldest son to marry the daughter of Plautianus ; and would 
often maintain Plautianus in doing affronts to his son ; and 
did write also in a letter to the senate by these words : / love 
the man so zvell, as I zvish he may over-live 7ne. Now if these 
princes had been as a Trajan, or a Marcus Aurelius, a man 
might have thought that this had proceeded of an abundant 
goodness of nature ; but being men so wise, for such strength 
and severity of mind, and so extreme lovers of themselves, as 
all these were, it proveth most plainly that they found their own 
felicity (though as great as ever happened to mortal men) but 
as an half piece, except they mought have a friend to make it 
entire : and yet, which is more, they were princes that had 
wives, sons, nephews ; and yet all these could not supply the 
comfort of friendship. 

It is not to be forgotten, what Comineus observeth of his 
first master, Duke Charles the Hardy ; namely, that he would 
communicate his secrets with none, and least of all, those 
secrets which troubled him most. Whereupon he goeth on 
and saith that towards his latter time that closeness did impair 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 45 

and a little pensJi his tinderstanding. Surely Comineus mought 
have made the same judgment also, if it had pleased him, of 
his second master, Lewis the Eleventh, whose closeness was 
indeed his tormentor. The parable of Pythagoras is dark, 
but true ; Cor ne edito, '' Eat not the heart." Certainly, if 
a man would give it a hard phrase, those that want friends 
to open themselves unto are cannibals of their own hearts. 
But one thing is most admirable (wherewith I will conclude 
this first fruit of friendship), which is, that this communicating 
of a man's self to his friend works two contrary effects ; for 
it redoubleth joys, and cutteth griefs in halfs. For there is 
no man that imparteth his joys to his friend, but he joyeth the 
more ; and no man that imparteth his griefs to his friend, but 
he grieveth the less. So that it is in truth of operation upon 
a man's mind, of like virtue as the alchymists use to attribute 
to their stone for man's body, that it worketh all contrary 
effects, but still to the good and benefit of nature. But yet, 
without praying in aid of alchymists, there is a manifest image 
of this in the ordinary course of nature. For in bodies, union 
strengtheneth and cherisheth any natural action ; and on the 
other side weakeneth and duUeth any violent impression : and 
even so is it of minds. 

The second fruit of friendship is healthful and sovereign 
for the understanding, as the first is for the affections. For 
friendship maketh indeed a fair day in the affections, from 
storm and tempests ; but it maketh daylight in the under- 
standing, out of darkness and confusion of thoughts. Neither 
is this to be understood only of faithful counsel, which a man 
receiveth from his friend ; but before you come to that, certain 
it is that whosoever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts, 
his wits and understanding do clarify and break up, in the 
communicating and discoursing with another ; he tosseth his 
thoughts more easily ; he marshalleth them more orderly ; he 
seeth how they look when they are turned into words ; finally, 
he waxeth wiser than himself ; and that more by an hour's 
discourse than by a day's meditation. It was well said by 



46 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Themistocles to the king of Persia, that speech was like cloth 
of Arras, opened' and put abroad, whereby the imagery doth 
appear in figttre ; ivhereas in thotights they lie btU as in packs. 
Neither is this second fruit of friendship, in opening the under- 
standing, restrained only to such friends as are able to give 
a man counsel (they indeed are best) ; but even without that, 
a man learneth of himself, and bringeth his own thoughts to 
light, and whetteth his wits as against a stone, which itself cuts 
not. In a word, a man were better relate himself to a statua 
or picture, than to suffer his thoughts to pass in smother. 

Add now, to make this second fruit of friendship complete, 
that other point, which lieth more open and falleth within vul- 
gar observation ; which is faithful counsel from a friend. Hera- 
clitus saith well in one of his enigmas. Dry light is ever the 
best. And certain it is that the light that a man receiveth by 
counsel from another is drier and purer than that which cometh 
from his own understanding and judgment ; which is ever in- 
fused and drenched in his affections and customs. So as there 
is as much difference between the counsel that a friend giveth, 
and that a man giveth himself, as there is between the counsel 
of a friend and of a flatterer. For there is no such flatterer as 
is a man's self ; and there is no such remedy against flattery 
of a man's self as the liberty of a friend. Counsel is of two 
sorts ; the one concerning manners, the other concerning busi- 
ness. For the first, the best preservative to keep the mind in 
health is the faithful admonition of a friend. The calling of 
a man's self to a strict account is a medicine, sometime, too 
piercing and corrosive. Reading good books of morality is a 
little flat and dead. Observing our faults in others is some- 
times improper for our case. But the best receipt (best, I say, 
to work, and best to take) is the admonition of a friend. It 
is a strange thing to behold what gross errors and extreme 
absurdities many (especially of the greater sort) do commit, 
for want of a friend to tell them of them, to the great damage 
both of their fame and fortune. For, as St. James saith, they 
are as men that look sometimes into a glass, and presently 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 47 

forget their ozvn shape and favour. As for business, a man may 
think, if he will, that two eyes see no more than one ; or that 
a gamester seeth always more than a looker-on ; or that a man 
in anger is as wise as he that hath said over the four and 
twenty letters ; or that a musket may be shot off as well upon 
the arm as upon a rest ; and such other fond and high imagi- 
nations, to think himself all in all. But when all is done, the 
help of good counsel is that which setteth business straight. 
And if any man think that he will take counsel, but it shall 
be by pieces — asking counsel in one business of one man, and 
in another business of another man — it is well (that is to say, 
better perhaps than if he asked none at all) ; but he runneth 
two dangers ; one, that he shall not be faithfully counselled ; 
for it is a rare thing, except it be from a perfect and entire 
friend, to have counsel given, but such as shall be bowed and 
crooked to some ends which he hath that giveth it. The other, 
that he shall have counsel given, hurtful and unsafe (though 
with good meaning), and mixed partly of mischief and partly 
of remedy ; even as if you would call a physician that is thought 
good for the cure of the disease you complain of, but is un- 
acquainted with your body ; and therefore may put you in way 
for a present cure, but overthroweth your health in some other 
kind ; and so cure the disease and kill the patient. But a friend 
that is wholly acquainted with a man's estate will beware, by 
furthering any present business, how he dasheth upon other 
inconvenience. And therefore rest not upon scattered counsels ; 
they will rather distract and mislead than settle and direct. 

After these two noble fruits of friendship (peace in the 
affections, and support of the judgment) followeth the last fruit, 
which is like the pomegranate, full of many kernels ; I mean 
aid and bearing a part in all actions and occasions. Here the 
best way to represent to life the manifold use of friendship is 
to cast and see how many things there are which a man can- 
not do himself ; and then it will appear that it was a sparing 
speech of the ancients, to say, that a friend is another himself ; 
for that a friend is far more than himself. Men have their 



48 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

time, and die many times in desire of some things which they 
principally take to heart ; the bestowing of a child, the finish- 
ing of a work, or the like. If a man have a true friend, he 
may rest almost secure that the care of those things will con- 
tinue after him. So that a man hath as it were two lives in 
his desires. A man hath a body, and that body is confined to 
a place ; but where friendship is, all offices of life are as it 
were granted to him and his deputy. For he may exercise 
them by his friend. How many things are there which a man 
cannot, with any face or comeliness, say or do himself ! A man 
can scarce allege his own merits with modesty, much less extol 
them ; a man cannot sometimes brook to supplicate or beg ; 
and a number of the like. But all these things are graceful 
in a friend's mouth, which are blushing in a man's own. So 
again, a man's person hath many proper relations w^hich he 
cannot put off. A man cannot speak to his son but as a father ; 
to his wife but as a husband ; to his enemy but upon terms : 
whereas a friend may speak as the case requires, and not as it 
sorteth with the person. But to enumerate these things were 
endless ; I have given the rule, where a man cannot fitly play 
his own part ; if he have not a friend, he may quit the stage. 

OF PLANTATIONS 

(1625) 

Plantations are amongst ancient, primitive, and heroical 
works. When the world was young, it begat more children ; 
but now it is old, it begets fewer : for I may justly account 
new plantations to be the children of former kingdoms. I like 
a plantation in a pure soil ; that is, where people are not dis- 
planted to the end to plant in others. For else it is rather 
an extirpation than a plantation. Planting of countries is like 
planting of woods ; for you must make account to leese almost 
twenty years profit, and expect your recompense in the end. 
For the principal thing that hath been the destruction of most 
plantations, hath been the base and hasty drawing of profit in 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 49 

the first years. It is true, speedy profit is not to be neglected, 
as far as may stand with the good of the plantation, but no 
further. It is a shameful and unblessed thing to take the scum 
of people, and wicked condemned men, to be the people with 
whom you plant : and not only so, but it spoileth the planta- 
tion ; for they will ever live like rogues, and not fall to work, 
but be lazy, and do mischief, and spend victuals, and be quickly 
weary, and then certify over to their country to the discredit of 
the plantation. The people wherewith you plant ought to be 
gardeners, ploughmen, labourers, smiths, carpenters, joiners, 
fishermen, fowlers, with some few apothecaries, surgeons, cooks, 
and bakers. In a country of plantation, first look about, what 
kind of victual the country yields of itself to hand ; as chest- 
nuts, walnuts, pine-apples, olives, dates, plums, cherries, wild 
honey, and the like ; and make use of them. Then consider 
what victual or esculent things there are, which grow speedily, 
and within the year ; as parsnips, carrots, turnips, onions, 
radish, artichokes of Hierusalem, maize, and the like. For 
wheat, barley, and oats, they ask too much labour ; but with 
pease and beans you may begin, both because they ask less 
labour, and because they serve for meat as well as for bread. 
And of rice likewise cometh a great increase, and it is a kind 
of meat. Above all, there ought to be brought store of biscuit, 
oat-meal, flour, meal, and the like, in the beginning, till bread 
may be had. For beasts or birds, take chiefly such as are least 
subject to diseases, and multiply fastest ; as swine, goats, cocks, 
hens, turkeys, geese, house-doves, and the like. The victual in 
plantations ought to be expended almost as in a besieged town ; 
that is, with certain allowance. And let the main part of the 
ground employed to gardens or corn be to a common stock ; 
and to be laid in, and stored up, and then delivered out in 
proportion ; besides some spots of ground that any particular 
person will manure for his own private. Consider likewise what 
commodities the soil where the plantation is doth naturally 
yield, that they may some way help to defray the charge of the 
plantation : so it be not, as was said, to the untimely prejudice 



50 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

of the main business, as it hath fared with tobacco in Virginia. 
Wood commonly aboundeth but too much ; and therefore tim- 
ber is fit to be one. If there be iron ore, and streams where- 
upon to set the mills, iron is a brave commodity where wood 
aboundeth. Making of bay-salt, if the climate be proper for it, 
would be put in experience. Growing silk likewise, if any be, 
is a likely commodity. Pitch and tar, where store of firs and 
pines are, will not fail. So drugs and sweet woods, where they 
are, cannot but yield great profit. Soap-ashes likewise, and 
other things that may be thought of. But moil not too much 
under ground ; for the hope of mines is very uncertain, and 
useth to make the planters lazy in other things. For govern- 
ment, let it be in the hands of one, assisted with some coun- 
sel ; and let them have commission to exercise martial laws, 
with some limitation. And above all, let men make that profit 
of being in the wilderness, as they have God always, and his 
service, before their eyes. Let not the government of the 
plantation depend upon too many counsellors and undertakers 
in the country that planteth, but upon a temperate number ; 
and let those be rather noblemen and gentlemen than mer- 
chants ; for they look ever to the present gain. Let there be 
freedoms from custom, till the plantation be of strength ; and 
not only freedom from custom, but freedom to carry their com- 
modities where they may make their best of them, except there 
be some special cause of caution. Cram not in people, by send- 
ing too fast company after company ; but rather hearken how 
they waste, and send supplies proportionably ; but so as the 
number may live well in the plantation, and not by surcharge 
be in penury. It hath been a great endangering to the health 
of some plantations, that they have built along the sea and 
rivers, in marish and unwholesome grounds. Therefore, though 
you begin there, to avoid carriage and other like discommodi- 
ties, yet build still rather upwards from the streams than along. 
It concerneth likewise the health of the plantation that they 
have good store of salt with them, that they may use it in their 
victuals when it shall be necessary. If you plant where savages 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 51 

are, do not only entertain them with trifles and gingles ; but 
use them justly and graciously, with sufficient guard neverthe- 
less : and do not win their favour by helping them to invade 
their enemies, but for their defence it is not amiss. And send 
oft of them over to the country that plants, that they may see 
a better condition than their own, and commend it when they 
return. When the plantation grows to strength, then it is time 
to plant with women as well as with men ; that the plantation 
may spread into generations, and not be ever pieced from 
without. It is the sinfullest thing in the world to forsake or 
destitute a plantation once in forwardness : for besides the 
dishonour, it is the guiltiness of blood of many commiserable 
persons. 

OF GARDENS 

(1625) 

God Almighty first planted a garden. And indeed it is the 
purest of human pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to 
the spirits of man ; without which buildings and palaces are 
but gross handyworks : and a man shall ever see that when 
ages grow to civility and elegancy, men come to build stately 
sooner than to garden finely ; as if gardening were the greater 
perfection. I do hold it, in the royal ordering of gardens, there 
ought to be gardens for all the months in the year ; in which 
severally things of beauty may be then in season. For Decem- 
ber and January, and the latter part of November, you must 
take such things as are green all winter : holly ; ivy ; bays ; 
juniper ; cypress-trees ; yew ; pine-apple-trees ; fir-trees ; rose- 
mary ; lavender ; periwinkle, the white, the purple, and the 
blue ; germander ; flags ; orange-trees ; lemon-trees ; and myr- 
tles, if they be stoved ; and sweet marjoram, warm set. There 
followeth, for the latter part of January and February, the 
mezereon-tree which then blossoms ; crocus vernus, both the 
yellow and the grey ; primroses ; anemones ; the early tulippa ; 
hyacynthus orientalis ; chamairis ; fritellaria. For March, there 
come violets, specially the single blue, which are the earliest ; 



52 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

the yellow daffodil ; the daisy ; the almond-tree in blossom ; 
the peach-tree in blossom ; the cornelian-tree in blossom ; sweet- 
briar. In April follow the double white violet ; the wall-flower ; 
the stock-gilliflower ; the cowslip ; flower-de-lices, and Hlies of 
all natures ; rosemary-flowers ; the tulippa ; the double piony ; 
the pale daffodil ; the French honeysuckle ; the cheiTy-tree in 
bkjssom ; the dammasin and plum-trees in blossom ; the white 
thorn in leaf ; the lilac-tree. In May and June come pinks of 
all sorts ; specially the blush-pink ; roses of all kinds, except 
the musk, which comes later ; honey-suckles ; strawberries 
bugloss ; columbine ; the French marigold ; flos Africanus 
cherry-tree in fruit ; ribes ; figs in fruit ; rasps ; vine flowers 
lavender in flowers ; the sweet satyrian, with the white flower 
herba muscaria ; lilium convallium ; the apple-tree in blossom. 
In July come gilliflowers of all varieties ; musk-roses ; the lime- 
tree in blossom ; early pears and plums in fruit ; genitings ; 
quadlins. In August come plums of all sorts in fruit ; pears ; 
apricocks ; berberries ; filberds ; musk-melons ; monks-hoods, 
of all colours. In September come grapes ; apples ; poppies 
of all colours ; peaches ; melocotones ; nectarines ; cornelians ; 
wardens ; quinces. In October and the beginning of Novem- 
ber come services ; medlars ; bullises ; roses cut or removed 
to come late ; holly oaks ; and such like. These particulars are 
for the climate of London ; but my meaning is perceived, that 
you may have ver perpetmim, as the place affords. 

And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air 
(where it comes and goes, like the warbling of music) than in 
the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight, than 
to know what be the flowers and plants that do best perfume 
the air. Roses, damask and red, are fast flowers of their smells ; 
so that you may walk by a whole row of them, and find noth- 
ing of their sweetness ; yea, though it be in a morning's dew. 
Bays likewise yield no smell as they grow. Rosemary little ; 
nor sweet marjoram. That which above all others yields the 
sweetest smell in the air, is the violet, specially the white 
double violet, which comes twice a year ; about the middle of 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 53 

April, and about Bartholomew-tide. Next to that is the musk- 
rose. Then the strawberry-leaves dying, which [yield] a most 
excellent cordial smell. Then the flower of the vines ; it is 
a little dust, like the dust of a bent, which grows upon the 
cluster in the first coming forth. Then sweet-briar. Then wall- 
flowers, which are very delightful to be set under a parlour or 
lower chamber window. Then pinks and gilliflowers, specially 
the matted pink and clove gilliflower. Then the flowers of the 
lime-tree. Then the honeysuckles, so they be somewhat afar 
off. Of beanflowers I speak not, because they are field flowers. 
But those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed 
by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed, are three ; 
that is, burnet, wild thyme, and watermints. Therefore you are 
to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you 
walk or tread. 

For gardens (speaking of those which are indeed prince- 
like, as we have done of buildings), the contents ought not 
well to be under thirty acres of ground, and to be divided 
into three parts : a green in the entrance ; a heath or desert in 
the going forth ; and the main garden in the midst ; besides 
alleys on both sides. And I like well that four acres of ground 
be assigned to the green ; six to the heath ; four and four to 
either side ; and twelve to the main garden. The green hath 
two pleasures : the one, because nothing is more pleasant to 
the eye than green grass kept finely shorn ; the other, because 
it will give you a fair alley in the midst, by which you may 
go in front upon a stately hedge, which is to enclose the 
garden. But because the alley will be long, and, in great heat 
of the year or day, you ought not to buy the shade in the 
garden by going in the sun through the green, therefore you 
are, of either side the green, to plant a covert alley, upon car- 
penter's work, about twelve foot in height, by which you may 
go in shade into the garden. As for the making of knots or 
figures with divers coloured earths, that they may lie under 
the windows of the house on that side which the garden 
stands, they be but toys : you may see as good sights many 



54 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

times in tarts. The garden is best to be square, encompassed 
on all the four sides with a stately arched hedge. The arches 
to be upon pillars of carpenter's work, of some ten foot high 
and six foot broad ; and the spaces between of the same di- 
mension with the breadth of the arch. Over the arches let 
there be an entire hedge of some four foot high, framed also 
upon carpenter's work ; and upon the upper hedge, over every 
arch, a little turret, with a belly, enough to receive a cage of 
birds ; and over every space between the arches some other 
little figure, with broad plates of round coloured glass, gilt, for 
the sun to play upon. But this hedge I intend to be raised 
upon a bank, not steep, but gently slope, of some six foot, set 
all with flowers. Also I understand that this square of the 
garden should not be the whole breadth of the ground, but to 
leave on either side ground enough for diversity of side alleys ; 
unto which the two covert alleys of the green may deliver you. 
But there must be no alleys with hedges at either end of this 
great enclosure : not at the hither end, for letting your pros- 
pect upon this fair hedge from the green ; nor at the further 
end, for letting your prospect from the hedge through the 
arches upon the heath. 

For the ordering of the ground within the great hedge, I 
leave it to variety of device ; advising nevertheless that what- 
soever form you cast it into, first, it be not too busy or full of 
work. Wherein I, for my part, do not like images cut out in 
juniper or other garden stuff : they be for children. Little low 
hedges, round, like welts, with some pretty pyramides, I like 
well ; and in some places, fair columns upon frames of car- 
penter's work. I would also have the alleys spacious and fair. 
You may have closer alleys upon the side grounds, but none 
in the main garden. I wish also, in the very middle, a fair 
mount, with three ascents, and alleys, enough for four to walk 
abreast ; which I would have to be perfect circles, without 
any bulwarks or embossments ; and the whole amount to be 
thirty foot high ; and some fine banqueting-house, with some 
chimneys neatly cast, and without too much glass. 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 55 

For fountains, they are a great beauty and refreshment ; but 
pools mar all, and make the garden unwholesome and full of 
flies and frogs. Fountains I intend to be of two natures : the 
one that sprinkleth or spouteth water ; the other a fair receipt 
of water, of some thirty or forty foot square, but without fish, or 
slime, or mud. For the first, the ornaments of images gilt, or 
of marble, which are in use, do well : but the main matter 
is so to convey the water, as it never stay, either in the bowls 
or in the cistern ; that the water be never by rest discoloured, 
green or red or the like, or gather any mossiness or putrefac- 
tion. Besides that, it is to be cleansed every day by the 
hand. Also some steps up to it, and some fine pavement 
about it, doth well. As for the other kind of fountain, which 
we may call a bathing pool, it may admit much curiosity and 
beauty, wherewith we will not trouble ourselves : as, that the 
bottom be finely paved, and with images ; the sides likewise ; 
and withal embellished with coloured glass, and such things 
of lustre ; encompassed also with fine rails of low statuas. But 
the main point is the same which we mentioned in the former 
kind of fountain ; which is, that the water be in perpetual 
motion, fed by a water higher than the pool, and delivered 
into it by fair spouts, and then discharged away under ground, 
by some equality of bores, that it stay little. And for fine de- 
vices, of arching water without spilling, and making it rise in 
several forms (of feathers, drinking glasses, canopies, and the 
like), they be pretty things to look on, but nothing to health 
and sweetness. 

For the heath, which was the third part of our plot, I wish 
it to be framed, as much as may be, to a natural wildness. 
Trees I would have none in it, but some thickets made only 
of sweet-briar and honeysuckle, and some wild vine amongst ; 
and the ground set with violets, strawberries, and primroses. 
For these are sweet, and prosper in the shade. And these to 
be in the heath, here and there, not in any order. I like also 
little heaps, in the nature of mole-hills (such as are in wild 
heaths), to be set, some with wild thyme, some with pinks, 



56 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

some with germander, that gives a good flower to the eye, 
some with periwinkle, some with violets, some with straw- 
berries, some with cowslips, some with daisies, some with red 
roses, some with lilium convallium, some with sweet-williams 
red, some with bear's-foot, and the like low flowers, being 
withal sweet and sightly. Part of which heaps are to be with 
standards of little bushes pricked upon their top, and part 
without. The standards to be roses, juniper, holly, berberries 
(but here and there, because of the smell of their blossom), 
red currants, gooseberry, rosemary, bays, sweet-briar, and such 
like. But these standards to be kept with cutting, that they 
grow not out of course. 

For the side grounds, you are to fill them with variety of 
alleys, private, to give a full shade, some of them, whereso- 
ever the sun be. You are to frame some of them likewise for 
shelter, that when the wind blows sharp, you may walk as in 
a gallery. And those alleys must be likewise hedged at both 
ends, to keep out the wind ; and these closer alleys must be 
ever finely gravelled, and no grass, because of going wet. In 
many of these alleys likewise, you are to set fruit-trees of all 
sorts ; as well upon the walls as in ranges. And this would 
be generally observed, that the borders wherein you plant your 
fruit-trees be fair and large and low, and not steep ; and set 
with fine flowers, but thin and sparingly, lest they deceive the 
trees. At the end of both the side grounds, I would have a 
mount of some pretty height, leaving the wall of the enclosure 
breast high, to look abroad into the fields. I 

For the main garden, I do not deny but there should be 
some fair alleys, ranged on both sides with fruit-trees ; and 
some pretty tufts of fruit-trees, and arbours with seats, set in 
some decent order ; but these to be by no means set too thick ; 
but to leave the main garden so as it be not close, but the air 
open and free. For as for shade, I would have you rest upon 
the alleys of the side grounds, there to walk, if you be dis- 
posed, in the heat of the year or day ; but to make account 
that the main garden is for the more temperate parts of the 



SIR FRANCIS BACON 57 

year ; and, in the heat of summer, for the morning and the 
evening, or over-cast days. 

For aviaries, I Hke them not, except they be of that large- 
ness as they may be turfed, and have hving plants and bushes 
set in them ; that the birds may have more scope and natural 
nestling, and that no foulness appear in the floor of the aviary. 
So I have made a platform of a princely garden, partly by pre- 
cept, partly by drawing, not a model, but some general lines 
of it ; and in this I have spared for no cost. But it is noth- 
ing for great princes, that for the most part taking advice with 
workmen with no less cost set their things together, and some- 
times add statuas, and such things, for state and magnificence, 
but nothing to the true pleasure of a garden. 



jyt/ Abraham cowley (1618-i667) 

THE DANGERS OF AN HONEST MAN IN MUCH 

COMPANY 

(1668) 

If twenty thousand naked Americans were not able to resist 
the assaults of but twenty well-armed Spaniards, I see little 
possibility for one honest man to defend himself against twenty 
thousand knaves, who are all furnished cap-a-pie with the de- 
fensive arms of worldly prudence, and the offensive, too, of 
craft and malice. He will find no less odds than this against 
him if he have much to do in human affairs. The only advice, 
therefore, which I can give him is, to be sure not to venture 
his person any longer in the open campaign, to retreat and en- 
trench himself, to stop up all avenues, and draw up all bridges 
against so numerous an enemy. The truth of it is, that a man 
in much business must either make himself a knave, or else 
the world will make him a fool : and if the injury went no 
farther than the being laughed at, a wise man would content 
himself with the revenge of retaliation ; but the case is much 
worse, for these civil cannibals too, as well as the wild ones, 
not only dance about such a taken stranger, but at last devour 
him. A. sober man cannot get too soon out of drunken com- 
pany ; though they be never so kind and merry among them- 
selves, 'tis not unpleasant only, but dangerous to him. Do ye 
wonder that a virtuous man should love to be alone } It is 
hard for him to be otherwise ; he is so, when he is among 
ten thousand ; neither is the solitude so uncomfortable to be 
alone without any other creature, as it is to be alone in the 
midst of wild beasts. Man is to man all kind of beasts — 
a fawning dog, a roaring lion, a thieving fox, a robbing wolf, 

S8 



ABRAHAM COWLEY 59 

a dissembling crocodile, a treacherous decoy, and a rapa cious 
vulture. The civilest, methinks, of all nations, are those whom 
we account the most barbarous ; there is some moderation and 
good nature in the Toupinambaltians who eat no men but 
their enemies, whilst we learned and polite and Christian Euro- 
peans, like so many pikes and sharks, prey upon everything 
that we can swallow. It is the great boast of eloquence and 
philosophy, that they first congregated men dispersed, united 
them into societies, and built up the houses and the walls of 
cities. I wish they could unravel all they had woven ; that we 
might have our woods and our innocence again instead of our 
castles and our policies. They have assembled many thousands 
of scattered people into one body : 't is true, they have done 
so, they have brought them together into cities to cozen, and 
into armies to murder, one another ; they found them hunters 
and fishers of wild creatures, they have made them hunters 
and fishers of their brethren ; they boast to have reduced them 
to a state of peace, when the truth is they have only taught 
them an art of war ; they have framed, I must confess, whole- 
some laws for the restraint of vice, but they raised first that 
devil which now they conjure and cannot bind ; though there 
were before no punishments for wickedness, yet there was less 
committed because there were no rewards for it. But the men 
who praise philosophy from this topic are much deceived ; let 
oratory answer for itself, the tinkling, perhaps, of that may 
unite a swarm : it never was the work of philosophy to assem- 
ble multitudes, but to regulate only, and govern them when 
they were assembled, to make the best of an evil, and bring 
them, as much as is possible, to unity again. Avarice and 
ambition only were the first builders of towns, and founders of 
empire ; they said, " Go to, let us build us a city and a tower 
whose top may reach unto heaven, and let us make us a name, 
lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the earth." What 
was the beginning of Rome, the metropolis of all the world .? 
What was it but a concourse of thieves, and a sanctuary of 
criminals ? It was justly named by the augury of no less than 



6o THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

twelve vultures, and the founder cemented his walls with the 
blood of his brother. Not unlike to this was the beginning 
even of the first town, too, in the world, and such is the origi- 
nal sin of most cities : their actual increase daily with their age 
and growth ; the more people, the more wicked all of them ; 
every one brings in his part to inflame the contagion, which 
becomes at last so universal and so strong, that no precepts 
can be sufficient preservatives, nor anything secure our safety, 
but flight from among the infected. We ought, in the choice 
of a situation, to regard above all things the healthfulness of 
the place, and the healthfulness of it for the mind rather than 
for the body. But suppose (which is hardly to be supposed) 
we had antidote enough against this poison ; nay, suppose, 
farther, we were always and at all pieces armed and provided 
both against the assaults of hostility and the mines of treachery, 
't will yet be but an uncomfortable life to be ever in alarms ; 
though we were compassed round with fire to defend ourselves 
from wild beasts, the lodging would be unpleasant, because we 
must always be obliged to watch that fire, and to fear no less 
the defects of our guard than the diligences of our enemy. 
The sum of this is, that a virtuous man is in danger to be trod 
upon and destroyed in the crowd of his contraries ; nay, which 
is worse, to be changed and corrupted by them, and that 't is 
impossible to escape both these inconveniences without so much 
caution as will take away the whole quiet, that is, the happiness 
of his life. Ye see, then, what he may lose ; but, I pray, what 
can he get there .? Quid RorncE faciamf Mentiri nescio. What 
should a man of truth and honesty do at Rome ? He can neither 
understand, nor speak the language of the place ; a naked man 
may swim in the sea, but 't is not the way to catch fish there ; 
they are likelier to devour him than he them, if he bring no 
nets and use no deceits. I think, therefore, it was wise and 
friendly advice which Martial gave to Fabian when he met 
him newly arrived at Rome. 

Honest and poor, faithful in word and thought ; 
What has thee, Fabian, to the city brought ? 



ABRAHAM COWLEY 6l 

Thou neither the buffoon nor bawd canst play, 
Nor with false whispers the innocent betray : 
Nor corrupt wives, nor from rich beldams get 
A living by thy industry and sweat ; 
Nor with vain promises and projects cheat, 
Nor bribe or flatter any of the great. 

But you 're a man of learning, prudent, just ; 
A man of courage, firm, and fit for trust. 

Why, you may stay, and live unenvied here ; 
But (faith) go back, and keep you where you were. 

Nay, if nothing of all this were in the case, yet the very 
sight of uncleanness is loathsome to the cleanly ; the sight of 
folly and impiety vexatious to the wise and pious. 

Lucretius, by his favour, though a good poet, was but an 
ill-natured man, when he said, '' It was delightful to see other 
men in a great storm." And no less ill-natured should I think 
Democritus, who laughed at all the world, but that he retired 
himself so much out of it that we may perceive he took no 
great pleasure in that kind of mirth. I have been drawn twice 
or thrice by company to go to Bedlam, and have seen others 
very much delighted with the fantastical extravagancy of so 
many various madnesses, which upon me wrought so contrary 
an effect, that I always returned not only melancholy, but even 
sick with the sight. My compassion there was perhaps too 
tender, for I meet a thousand madmen abroad, without any 
perturbation, though, to weigh the matter justly, the total loss 
of reason is less deplorable than the total depravation of it. 
An exact judge of human blessings, of riches, honours, beauty, 
even of wit itself, should pity the abuse of them more than 
the want. 

Briefly, though a wise man could pass never so securely 
through the great roads of human life, yet he will meet per- 
petually with so many objects and occasions of compassion, 
grief, shame, anger, hatred, indignation, and all passions but 
envy (for he will find nothing to deserve that) that he had 
better strike into some private path ; nay, go so far, if he could, 
out of the common way, ?/t nee faeta audiat Pelopieiarum ; 



62 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

that he might not so much as hear of the actions of the sons 
of Adam. But whither shall we fly, then ? Into the deserts, 
like the ancient hermits ? 

Quia terra patet fera regnat Erynnis. 
In faciii us jurasse putes. 

One would think that all mankind had bound themselves by 
an oath to do all the wickedness they can ; that they had all 
(as the Scripture speaks) sold themselves to sin : the difference 
only is, that some are a little more crafty (and but a little, 
God knows) in making of the bargain. I thought, when I 
went first to dwell in the country, that without doubt I should 
have met there with the simplicity of the old poetical golden 
age : I thought to have found no inhabitants there, but such 
as the shepherds of Sir Philip Sidney in Arcadia, or of Mon- 
sieur d'Urfe upon the banks of Lignon ; and began to con- 
sider with myself, which way I might recommend no less to 
posterity the happiness and innocence of the men of Chertsey : 
but to confess the truth, I perceived quickly, by infallible 
demonstrations, that I was still in old England, and not in 
Arcadia, or La Forrest ; that if I could not content myself 
with anything less than exact fidelity in human conversation, 
I had almost as good go back and seek for it in the Court, 
or the Exchange, or Westminster Hall. I ask again, then, 
whither shall we fly, or what shall we do 1 The world may so 
come in a man's way that he cannot choose but salute it ; he 
must take heed, though, not to go a-whoring after it. If by 
any lawful vocation or just necessity men happen to be mar- 
ried to it, I can only give them St. Paul's advice : " Brethren, 
the time is short ; it remains that they that have wives be as 
though they had none. But I would that all men were even 
as I myself." 

In all cases they must be sure that they do immduin dticere 
and not 7nimdo mtbere. They must retain the superiority and 
headship over it : happy are they who can get out of the sight 
of this deceitful beauty, that they may not be led so much as 



ABRAHAM COWLEY 63 

into temptation ; who have not only quitted the metropohs, 
but can abstain from ever seeing the next market town of 
their country. 

OF MYSELF 

(1668) 

It is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself ; 
it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement and 
the reader's ears to hear anything of praise from him. There 
is no danger from me of offending him in this kind ; neither 
my mind, nor my body, nor my fortune allow me any materials 
for that vanity. It is sufficient for my own contentment that 
they have preserved me from being scandalous, or remarkable 
on the defective side. But besides that, I shall here speak of 
myself only in relation to the subject of these precedent dis- 
courses, and shall be likelier thereby to fall into the contempt 
than rise up to the estimation of most people. As far as my 
memory can return back into my past life, before I knew or 
was capable of guessing what the world, or glories, or business 
of it were, the natural affections of my soul gave me a secret 
bent of aversion from them, as some plants are said to turn 
away from others, by an antipathy imperceptible to themselves 
and inscrutable to man's understanding. Even when I was a 
very young boy at school, instead of running about on holidays 
and playing with my fellows, I was wont to steal from them 
and walk into the fields, either alone with a book, or with some 
one companion, if I could find any of the same temper. I was 
then, too, so much an enemy to all constraint, that my masters 
could never prevail on me, by any persuasions or encourage- 
ments, to learn without book the common rules of grammar, 
in which they dispensed with me alone, because they found I 
made a shift to do the usual exercise out of my own reading and 
observation. That I was then of the same mind as I am now 
(which I confess I wonder at myself) may appear by the latter 
end of an ode which I made when I was but thirteen years 



64 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

old, and which was then printed with many other verses. The 
beginning of it is boyish, but of this part which I here set 
down (if a very Httle were corrected) I should hardly now be 
much ashamed. 

9 

This only grant me, that my means may lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honour I would have, 
Not from great deeds, but good alone. 
The unknown are better than ill known. 

Rumour can ope the grave : 
Acquaintance I would have, but when "t depends 
Not on the number, but the choice of friends. 

10 
Books should, not business, entertain the light, 
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. 

My house a cottage, more 
Than palace, and should fitting be 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 
With Nature's hand, not Art's -. and pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy in his Sabine field.. 

11 

Thus would I double my life's fading space. 
For he that runs it well twice runs his race. 

And in this true delight, 
These unbought sports, this happy state, 
I would not fear, nor wash my fate. 

But boldly say each night, 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display. 
Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to-day. 

You may see by it I was even then acquainted with the 
poets (for the conclusion is taken out of Horace), and per- 
haps it was the immature and immoderate love of them which 
stamped first, or rather engraved, these characters in me. They 
were like letters cut into the bark of a young tree, which with 
the tree still grow proportionably. But how this love came to 
be produced in me so early is a hard question. I believe I can 






ABRAHAM COWLEY 65 

tell the particular little chance that filled my head first with 
such chimes of verse as have never since left ringing there. 
For I remember when I began to read, and to take some pleas- 
ure in it, there was wont to lie in my mother's parlour (I know 
not by what accident, for she herself never in her life read 
any book but of devotion), but there was wont to lie Spenser's 
works ; this I happened to fall upon, and was infinitely de- 
lighted with the stories of the knights, and giants, and mon- 
sters, and brave houses, which I found everywhere there (though 
my understanding had little to do with all this) ; and by degrees 
with the tinkling of the rhyme and dance of the numbers, so 
that I think I had read him all over before I was twelve years 
old, and was thus made a poet as immediately as a child is 
made an eunuch. With these affections of mind, and my heart 
wholly set upon letters, I went to the university, but was soon 
torn from thence by that violent public storm which would suffer 
nothing to stand where it did, but rooted up every plant, even 
from the princely cedars to me, the hyssop. Yet I had as good 
fortune as could have befallen me in such a tempest ; for I 
was cast by it into the family of one of the best persons, and 
into the court of one of the best princesses of the world. Now 
though I was here engaged in ways most contrary to the orig- 
inal design of my life, that is, into much company, and no 
small business, and into a daily sight of greatness, both mili- 
tant and triumphant (for that was the state then of the English 
and French Courts) ; yet all this was so far from altering my 
opinion, that it only added the confirmation of reason to that 
which was before but natural inclination. I saw plainly all the 
paint of that kind of life, the nearer I came to it ; and that 
beauty which I did not fall in love with when, for aught I knew, 
it was real, was not like to bewitch or entice me when I saw 
that it was adulterate. I met with several great persons, whom 
I liked very well, but could not perceive that any part of their 
greatness was to be liked or desired, no more than I would be 
glad or content to be in a storm, though I saw many ships 
which rid safely and bravely in it. A storm would not agree 



66 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

with my stomach, if it did with my courage. Though I was 
in a crowd of as good company as could be found anywhere, 
though I was in business of great and honourable trust, though 
I eat at the best table, and enjoyed the best conveniences for 
present subsistence that ought to be desired by a man of my 
condition in banishment and public distresses ; yet I could not 
abstain from renewing my old schoolboy's wish in a copy of 
verses to the same effect. 

Well then ; I now do plainly see, 

This busy world and I shall ne'er agree, etc. 

And I never then proposed to myself any other advantage 
from His Majesty's happy restoration, but the getting into some 
moderately convenient retreat in the country, which I thought 
in that case I might easily have compassed, as well as some 
others, with no greater probabilities or pretences, have arrived 
to extraordinary fortunes. But I had before written a shrewd 
prophecy against myself, and I think Apollo inspired me in 
the truth, though not in the elegance of it. 

Thou, neither great at court nor in the war, 

Nor at th' exchange shalt be, nor at the wrangling bar ; 

Content thyself with the small barren praise. 

Which neglected verse does raise, etc. 

However, by the failing of the forces which I had expected, 
I did not quit the design which I had resolved on ; I cast my- 
self into it a coif s perdu, without making capitulations or tak- 
ing counsel of fortune. But God laughs at a man who says 
to his soul, "Take thy ease" : I met presently not only with 
many little encumbrances and impediments, but with so much 
sickness (a new misfortune to me) as would have spoiled the 
happiness of an emperor as well as mine. Yet I do neither 
repent nor alter my course. Non ego peijidiim dixi sacra- 
mentum. Nothing shall separate me from a mistress which 
I have loved so long, and have now at last married, though 
she neither has brought me a rich portion, nor lived yet so 
quietly with me as I hoped from her. 



ABRAHAM COWLEY 6y 

■ jYer: vos, dulcissiina inundi 



Nomina^ vos Mns(c^ libertas^ otia^ libri^ 
Hortique sylv(sque ani;;ia 7'emanente relznquajn. 

Nor by me e'er shall you, 
You of all names the sweetest, and the best, 
You Muses, books, and liberty, and rest. 
You gardens, fields, and woods forsaken be, 
As long as life itself forsakes not me. 

But this is a very petty ejaculation. Because I have con- 
cluded all the other chapters with a copy of verses, I will 
maintain the humour to the last. 

MARTIAL, BOOK 10, EPIGRAM 47 

Vitam qiice faciunt beatiorem, etc. 

Since, dearest friend, 't is your desire to see 

A true receipt of happiness from me ; 

These are the chief ingredients, if not all : 

Take an estate neither too great nor small, 

Which quantum sufficit the doctors call. 

Let this estate from parents' care descend : 

The getting it too much of life does spend. 

Take such a ground, whose gratitude may be 

A fair encouragement for industry. 

Let constant fires the winter's fury tame, 

And let thy kitchen's be a vestal flame. 

Thee to the town let never suit at law. 

And rarely, very rarely, business draw. 

Thy active mind in equal temper keep. 

In undisturbed peace, yet not in sleep. 

Let exercise a vigorous health maintain. 

Without which all the composition 's vain. 

In the same weight prudence and innocence take, 

Alia of each does the just mixture make. 

But a few friendships wear, and let them be 

By Nature and by Fortune fit for thee. 

Instead of art and luxury in food, 

Let mirth and freedom make thy table good. 

If any cares into thy daytime creep. 

At night, without wine's opium, let them sleep. 



68 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Let rest, which Nature does to darkness wed, 

And not lust, recommend to thee thy bed. 

Be satisfied, and pleased with what thou art ; 

Act cheerfully and well th' allotted part, 

Enjoy the present hour, be thankful for the past. 

And neither fear, nor wish th' approaches of the last. 

MARTIAL, BOOK 10, EPIGRAM 96 

Me, who have lived so long among the great, 
You wonder to hear talk of a retreat : 
* And a retreat so distant, as may show 

No thoughts of a return when once I go. 
Give me a country, how remote so e'er, 
Where happiness a moderate rate does bear, 
Where poverty itself in plenty flows 
And all the solid use of riches knows. 
The ground about the house maintains it there. 
The house maintains the ground about it here. 
Here even hunger 's dear, and a full board 
Devours the vital substance of the lord. 
The land itself does there the feast bestow. 
The land itself must here to market go. 
Three or four suits one winter here does waste. 
One suit does there three or four winters last. 
Here every frugal man must oft be cold, 
And little lukewarm fires are to you sold. 
There fire 's an element as cheap and free 
Almost as any of the other three. 
Stay you then here, and live among the great, 
Attend their sports, and at their tables eat. 
When all the bounties here of men you score, 
The place's bounty there shall give me more. 



SEVENTEENTH CENTURY CHARACTERS 

John Earle (1601-1665) 
From Mic7Vcos7nographze (1628) 

A MERE YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF THE 
UNIVERSITY 

Is one that comes there to wear a gown, and to say here- 
after, he has been at the university. His father sent him 
thither because he heard there were the best fencing and 
dancing schools ; from these he has his education, from his 
tutor the oversight. The first element of his knowledge is to 
be shown the colleges, and initiated in a tavern by the way, 
which hereafter he will learn of himself. The two marks of 
his seniority is the bare velvet of his gown and his proficiency 
at tennis, where when he can once play a set, he is a fresh- 
man no more. His study has commonly handsome shelves, 
his books neat silk strings, which he shows to his father's 
man, and is loth to untie or take down for fear of misplacing. 
Upon foul days for recreation he retires thither, and looks 
over the pretty book his tutor reads to him, which is commonly 
some short history, or a piece of Etiphormio ; for which his 
tutor gives him money to spend next day. His main loitering 
is at the library, where he studies arms and books of honour, 
and turns a gentleman-critic in pedigrees. Of all things he 
endures not to be mistaken for a scholar, and hates a black 
suit though it be of sattin. His companion is ordinarily some 
stale fellow, that has been notorious for an ingle to gold 
hatbands, whom he admires at first, afterward scorns. If he 
have spirit or wit, he may light of better company, and may 
learn some flashes of wit, which may do him knight's service 

69. 



JO THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

in the country hereafter. But he is now gone to the Inns-of- 
court, where he studies to forget what he learned before, his 
acquaintance and the fashion. 



A CONTEMPLATIVE MAN 

Is a scholar in this great university the World, and the 
same his book and study. He cloisters not his meditations in 
the narrow darkness of a room, but sends them abroad with 
his eyes, and his brain travels with his feet. He looks upon 
man from a high tower, and sees him trulier at this distance in 
.his infirmities and poorness. He scorns to mix himself in men's 
'^v actions, as he would to act upon a stage ; but sits aloft on the 
scaffold a censuring spectator. Nature admits him as a par- 
taker of her sports, and asks his approbation as it were of her 
own works and variety. He comes not in company, because 
he would not be solitary, but finds discourse enough with 
himself, and his own thoughts are his excellent playfellows. 
He looks not upon a thing as a yawning stranger at novelties ; 
but his search is more mysterious and inward, and he spells 
Heaven out of earth. He knits his observations together, and 
makes a ladder of them all to climb to God. He is free from 
vice, because he has no occasion to employ it, and is above 
those ends that make men wicked. He has learnt all can here 
be taught him, and comes now to Heaven to see more. 



Jean La Bruyere (i 645-1 696) 
From Les Caracth'es (i 688-1 694) 

THE CHARACTER OF ARRIAS 

Who, that goes into society, can help meeting with certain 
vain, fickle, familiar, and positive people who monopolise all 
conversation, and compel every one else to listen to them } 
They can be heard in the anteroom, and a person may boldly 
enter without fear of interrupting them ; they continue their 



SEVENTEENTH CENTURY CHARACTERS 71 

story without paying the smallest attention to any comers or 
goers, or to the rank and quality of their audience ; they silence 
a man who begins to tell an anecdote, so that they may tell it 
themselves according to their fashion, which is the best ; they 
heard it from Zamet, from Ruccellai, or from Concini, whom 
they do not know, to whom they never spoke in their lives, 
and whom they would address as "Your Excellency," if ever 
they spoke to any one of them. They sometimes will go up 
to a man of the highest rank among those who are present, 
and whisper in his ear some circumstance which nobody else 
knows, and which they would not have divulged to others for 
the world ; they conceal some names to disguise the anecdote 
they relate and to prevent the real persons being found out ; 
you ask them to let you have these names, you urge them in 
vain. There are some things they must not tell, and some 
persons whom they cannot name ; they have given their word 
of honour not to do so ; it is a secret, a mystery of the greatest 
importance ; moreover, you ask an impossibility. You might 
wish to learn something from them, but they know neither the 
facts nor the persons. 

Arrias has read and seen everything, at least he would lead 
you to think so ; he is a man of universal knowledge, or pre- 
tends to be, and would rather tell a falsehood than be silent 
or appear to ignore anything. Some person is talking at meal- 
time in the house of a man of rank of a northern court ; he 
interrupts and prevents him telling what he knows ; he goes 
hither and thither in that distant country as if he were a native 
of it ; he discourses about the habits of its court, the native 
women, the laws and customs of the land ; he tells many little 
stories which happened there, thinks them very entertaining, 
and is the first to laugh loudly at them. Somebody presumes 
to contradict him, and clearly proves to him that what he says 
is untrue. Arrias is not disconcerted ; on the contrary, he 
grows angry at the interruption, and exclaims, '' I aver and 
relate nothing but what I know on excellent authority ; I had 
it from Sethon, the French ambassador at that court, who only 



72 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

a few days ago came back to Paris, and is a particular friend 
of mine ; I asked him several questions, and he replied to 
them all without concealing anything." He continues his story 
with greater confidence than he began it, till one of the com- 
pany informs him that the gentleman whom he has been 
contradicting was Sethon himself, but lately arrived from 
his embassy. 



THE TATLER (1709-1711) 

PROSPECTUS 

No. I. Tuesday, April 12, 1709 

Qiiicquid agunt homines . . . 710 stri farrago libeUi. 

Though the other papers which are pubhshed for the use 
of the good people of England have certainly very wholesome 
effects, and are laudable in their particular kinds, yet they do 
not seem to come up to the main design of such narrations, 
which, I humbly presume, should be principally intended for 
the use of politic persons, who are so public-spirited as to neg- 
lect their own affairs to look into transactions of state. Now 
these gentlemen, for the most part, being men of strong zeal 
and weak intellects, it is both a charitable and necessary work 
to offer something, whereby such worthy and well-affected mem- 
bers of the commonwealth may be instructed, after their read- 
ing, what to think ; which shall be the end and purpose of this 
my paper, wherein I shall from time to time report and con- 
sider all matters of what kind soever that shall occur to me, 
and publish such my advices and reflections every Tuesday, 
Thursday, and Saturday in the week, for the convenience of 
the post. I have also resolved to have something which may 
be of entertainment to the fair sex, in honour of whom I have 
taken the title of this paper. I therefore earnestly desire all 
persons, without distinction, to take it in for the present gratis, 
and hereafter at the price of one penny, forbidding all hawkers 
to take more for it at their peril. And I desire my readers to 
consider, that I am at a very great charge for proper materials 
for this work, as well as that, before I resolved upon it, I 
had settled a correspondence in all parts of the known and 



74 



THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 



knowing world. And forasmuch as this globe is not trodden 
upon by mere drudges of business only, but that men of spirit 
and genius are justly to be esteemed as considerable agents in 
it, we shall not, upon a dearth of news, present you with musty 
foreign edicts, or dull proclamations, but shall divide our rela- 
tion of the passages which occur in action or discourse through- 
out this town, as well as elsewhere, under such dates of places 
as may prepare you for the matter you are to expect, in the 
following manner : 

All accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and entertainment, shall 
be under the article of White's Chocolate-house ; poetry, 
under that of Will's Coffee-house ; learning, under the title 
of Grecian ; foreign and domestic news, you will have from 
St. James's Coffee-house ; and what else I shall on any other 
subject offer, shall be dated from my own apartment. 

I once more desire my reader to consider that as I cannot 
keep an ingenious man to go daily to Will's under twopence 
each day merely for his charges, to White's under sixpence, 
nor to the Grecian without allowing him some plain Spanish, 
to be as able as others at the learned table ; and that a good 
observer cannot speak with even Kidney at St. James's without 
clean linen ; I say, these considerations will, I hope, make all 
persons willing to comply with my humble request (when my 
gratis stock is exhausted) of a penny a piece ; especially since 
they are sure of some proper amusement, and that it is impossi- 
ble for me to want means to entertain them, having, besides 
the helps of my own parts, the power of divination, and that I 
can, by casting a figure, tell you all that will happen before it 
comes to pass. 

But this last faculty I shall use very sparingly, and not speak 
of anything until it is passed, for fear of divulging matters 
which may offend our superiors. [Steele] 



THE TATLER 75 

ON DUELLING 

No. 29. Thursday, June 16, 1709 

White's Chocolafe-house, Jinie 14 

Having a very solid respect for human nature, however it is 
distorted from its natural make by affectation, humour, custom, 
misfortune, or vice, I do apply myself to my friends to help 
me in raising arguments for preserving it in all its individuals, 
as long as it is permitted. To one of my letters on this subject, 
I have received the following answer : 

Sir, 

In answer to your question, why men of sense, virtue, and experience 
are seen still to comply with that ridiculous custom of duelHng, I must de- 
sire you to reflect that custom has dished up in ruffs the wisest heads of 
our ancestors, and put the best of the present age into huge falbala peri- 
wigs. Men of sense would not impose such encumbrances on themselves, 
but be glad they might show their faces decently in public upon easier 
terms. If then such men appear reasonably slaves to the fashion, in what 
regards the figure of their persons, we ought not to wonder that they are 
at least so in what seems to touch their reputations. Besides, you can't be 
ignorant that dress and chivalry have been always encouraged by the ladies 
as the two principal branches of gallantry. It is to avoid being sneered at 
for his singularity, and from a desire to appear more agreeable to his mis- 
tress, that a wise, experienced, and polite man complies with the dress com- 
monly received, and is prevailed upon to violate his reason and principles 
in hazarding his life and estate by a tilt, as well as suffering his pleasures 
to be constrained and soured by the constant apprehension of a quarrel. 
This is the more surprising, because men of the most delicate sense and 
principles have naturally in other cases a particular repugnance in accom- 
modating themselves to the maxims of the world : but one may easily dis- 
tinguish the man that is affected with beauetry and the reputation of a tilt 
from him who complies with both merely as they are imposed upon him by 
custom ; for in the former you will remark an air of vanity and triumph, 
whereas when the latter appears in a long Duvillier full of powder, or has 
decided a quarrel by the sword, you may perceive in his face that he ap- 
peals to custom for an excuse. I think it may not be improper to inquire 
into the genealogy of this chimerical monster called a duel, which I take 
to be an illegitimate species of the ancient knight-errantry. By the laws 



76 



THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 



of this whim, your heroic person, or man of gallantry, was indispensably 
obliged to starve in armour a certain number of years in the chase of mon- 
sters, encounter them at the peril of his life, and suffer great hardships in 
order to gain the affection of the fair lady, and qualify himself for assum- 
ing the bel air, that is, of a pretty fellow, or man of honour according to 
the fashion : but since the publishing of Don Quixote and extinction of 
the race of dragons, which Suetonius says happened in that of Wantley, the 
gallant and heroic spirits of these later times have been under the necessity 
of creating new chimerical monsters to entertain themselves with, by way 
of single combats, as the only proofs they are able to give their own sex, 
and the ladies, that they are in all points men of nice honour. But to do 
justice to the ancient and real monsters, I must observe that they never 
molested those who were not of a humour to hunt for them in the woods 
and deserts ; whereas, on the contrary, our modern monsters are so famil- 
iarly admitted and entertained in all the courts and cities of Europe (except 
France) that one can scarce be in the most humanised society without risk- 
ing one's life ; the people of the best sort and the fine gentlemen of the 
age being so fond of them that they seldom appear in any public place 
without one. I have some further considerations upon this subject which, 
as you encourage me, shall be communicated to you by, Sir, a cousin but 
once removed from the best family of the Staffs, namely. 

Sir, 
Your humble Servant, 

Kinsman and Friend, 

Tim. Switch. 



It is certain, Mr. Switch has hit upon the true source of this 
evil, and that it proceeds only from the force of custom that 
we contradict ourselves in half the particulars and occurrences 
of life. But such a tyranny in love, which the fair impose upon 
us, is a little too severe, that we must demonstrate our affection 
for them by no certain proof but hatred to one another, or come 
at them (only as one does to an estate) by survivorship. This 
way of application to gain a lady's heart is taking her as we 
do towns and castles, by distressing the place and letting none 
come near them without our pass. Were such a lover once 
to write the truth of his heart, and let her know his whole 
thoughts, he would appear indeed to have a passion for her ; 
but it would hardly be called love. The billet-doux would run 
to this purpose : 



THE TATLER yy 

Madame, 

I have so tender a regard for you and your interests that I '11 knock any 

man in the head whom I observe to be of my mind, and like you. Mr. Tru- 

-^ man the other day looked at you in so languishing a manner that I am re- 

-' solved to run him through to-morrow morning : this, I think, he deserves 

for his guilt in admiring you, than which I cannot have a greater reason 

- for murdering him, except it be that you also approve him. Whoever says 

"^ he dies for you, I will make his words good, for I will kill him. I am, 

Madame, 

Your most obedient, 
FSteeleI Most humble Servant. 

HAPPY MARRIAGE 

No. 95. November 17, 1709 

Interea dulces pendent circuni oscula ?iati ; casta piidicitiam servat domus . 
Fro))i jny own Apartment^ Nov. 16 

There are several persons who have many pleasures and enter- 
tainments in their possession which they do not enjoy. It is 
therefore a kind and good office to acquaint them with their own 
happiness, and turn their attention to such instances of their 
good fortune which they are apt to overlook. Persons in the 
married state often want such a monitor, and pine away their 
days, by looking upon the same condition in anguish and mur- 
mur which carries with it in the opinion of others a complication 
of all the pleasures of life, and a retreat from its inquietudes. 

I am led into this thought by a visit I made an old friend 
who was formerly my school-fellow. He came to town last week 
with his family for the winter, and yesterday morning sent me 
word his wife expected me to dinner. I am as it were at home 
at that house, and every member of it knows me for their well- 
wisher. I cannot indeed express the pleasure it is to be met 
by the children with so much joy as I am when I go thither : 
the boys and girls strive who shall come first when they think 
it is I that am knocking at the door ; and that child which 
loses the race to me runs back again to tell the father it is 
Mr. Bickerstaff. This day I was led in by a pretty girl, that 



78 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

we all thought must have forgot me ; for the family has been 
out of town these two years. Her knowing me again was a 
mighty subject with us, and took up our discourse at the first 
entrance. After which, they began to rally me upon a thousand 
little stories they heard in the country about my marriage to 
one of my neighbour's daughters : upon which the gentleman, 
my friend, said, '' Nay, if Mr. Bickerstaff marries a child of 
any of his old companions, I hope mine shall have the pref- 
erence ; there 's Mrs. Mary is now sixteen, and would make 
him as fine a widow as the best of them : but I know him too 
well ; he is so enamoured with the very memory of those who 
flourished in our youth, that he will not so much as look upon 
the modern beauties. I remember, old gentleman, how often 
you went home in a day to refresh your countenance and dress 
when Teraminta reigned in your heart. As we came up in the 
coach, I repeated to my wife some of your verses on her." 
With such reflections on little passages which happened long 
ago, we passed our time during a cheerful and elegant meal. 
After dinner, his lady left the room, as did also the children. 
As soon as we were alone, he took me by the hand ; " Well, 
my good friend," says he, ''I am heartily glad to see thee ; I 
was afraid you would never have seen all the company that 
dined with you to-day again. Do not you think the good woman 
of the house a little altered since you followed her from the 
play-house, to find out who she was, for me .? " I perceived a 
tear fall down his cheek as he spoke, which moved me not 
a little. But to turn the discourse, said I, '' She is not indeed 
quite that creature she was when she returned me the letter I 
carried from you ; and told me, she hoped, as I was a gentle- 
man, I would be employed no more to trouble her who had 
never offended me, but would be so much the gentleman's 
friend as to dissuade him from a pursuit which he could never 
succeed in. You may remember, I thought her in earnest, and 
you were forced to employ your cousin Will, who made his 
sister get acquainted with her for you. You cannot expect her 
to be forever fifteen." " Fifteen .? " replied my good friend : 



THE TATLER 79 

" ah ! you little understand, you that have lived a bachelor, 
how great, how exquisite a pleasure there is in being really 
beloved ! It is impossible that the most beauteous face in 
nature should raise in me such pleasing ideas as when I look 
upon that excellent woman. That fading in her countenance 
is chiefly caused by her watching with me in my fever. This 
was followed by a fit of sickness, which had like to have carried 
her off last winter. I tell you sincerely, I have so many obli- 
gations to her, that I cannot with any sort of moderation think 
of her present state of health. But as to what you say of fif- 
teen, she gives me every day pleasures beyond what I ever knew 
in the possession of her beauty when I was in the vigour of 
youth. Every moment of her life brings me fresh instances 
of her complacency to my inclinations, and her prudence in 
regard to my fortune. Her face is to me much more beautiful 
than when I first saw it ; there is no decay in any feature which 
I cannot trace from the very instant it was occasioned by some 
anxious concern for my welfare and interests. Thus at the 
same time, methinks, the love I conceived towards her for what 
she was, is heightened by my gratitude for what she is. The 
love of a wife is as much above the idle passion commonly 
called by that name, as the loud laughter of buffoons is inferior 
to the elegant mirth of gentlemen. Oh ! she is an inestimable 
jewel. In her examination of her household affairs, she shows 
a certain fearfulness to find a fault, which makes her servants 
obey her like children ; and the meanest we have has an ingen- 
uous shame for an offence, not always to be seen in children 
in other families. I speak freely to you, my old friend ; ever 
since her sickness, things that gave me the quickest joy before, 
turn now to a certain anxiety. As the children play in the next 
room, I know the poor things by their steps, and am consider- 
ing what they must do, should they lose their mother in their 
tender years. The pleasure I used to take in telling my boy 
stories of the battles, and asking my girl questions about the 
disposal of her baby, and the gossiping of it, is turned into 
inward reflection and melancholy." 



8o THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

He would have gone on in this tender way, when the good 
lady entered, and with an inexpressible sweetness in her coun- 
tenance told us, she had been searching her closet for some- 
thing very good to treat such an old friend as I was. Her 
husband's eyes sparkled with pleasure at the cheerfulness of 
her countenance ; and I saw all his fears vanish in an instant. 
The lady observing something in our looks which showed we 
had been more serious than ordinary, and seeing her husband 
receive her with great concern under a forced cheerfulness, 
immediately guessed at what we had been talking of; and 
applying herself to me, said, with a smile, " Mr. Bickerstaff, 
don't believe a word of what he tells you. I shall still live to 
have you for my second, as I have often promised you, unless 
he takes more care of himself than he has done since his com- 
ing to town. You must know, he tells me that he finds London 
is a much more healthy place than the country ; for he sees 
several of his old acquaintance and school-fellows are here, 
young fellows with fair full-bottomed periwigs. I could scarce 
keep him this morning from going out open-breasted." My 
friend, who is always extremely delighted with her agreeable 
humour, made her sit down with us. She did it with that easi- 
ness which is peculiar to women of sense ; and to keep up the 
good humour she had brought in with her, turned her raillery 
upon me. " Mr. Bickerstaff, you remember you followed me 
one night from the play-house ; suppose you should carry me 
thither to-morrow night, and lead me into the front box." This 
put us into a long field of discourse about the beauties, who 
were mothers to the present, and shone in the boxes twenty 
years ago. I told her, I was glad she had transferred so many 
of her charms, and I did not question but her eldest daughter 
was within half-a-year of being a toast. 

We were pleasing ourselves with this fantastical preferment 
of the young- lady, when on a sudden we were alarmed with 
the noise of a drum, and immediately entered my little godson 
to give me a point of war. His mother, between laughing and 
chiding, would have put him out of the room ; but I . would 



THE TATLER 8 1 

not part with him so. I found, upon conversation with him, 
though he w^as a httle noisy in his mirth, that the child had 
excellent parts, and was a great master of all the learning 
on the other side eight years old. I perceived him a very 
great historian in ^sop's Fables ; but he frankly declared to 
me his mind, that he did not delight in that learning, because 
he did not believe they were true ; for which reason, I found 
he had very much turned his studies, for about a twelve-month 
past, into the lives and adventures of Don Bellianis of Greece, 
Guy of Warwick, the Seven Champions, and other historians 
of that age. I could not but observe the satisfaction the father 
took in the forwardness of his son ; and that these diversions 
might turn to some profit, I found the boy had made remarks, 
which might be of service to him during the course of his 
whole life. He would tell you the mismanagements of John 
Hickathrift, find fault with the passionate temper in Bevis of 
Southampton, and loved St. George for being the champion 
of England ; and by this means had his thoughts insensibly 
moulded into the notions of discretion, virtue, and honour. I 
was extolling his accomplishments, when the mother told me, 
that the little girl who led me in this morning was in her way 
a better scholar than he. '' Betty," says she, '' deals chiefly 
in fairies and sprites ; and sometimes in a winter night will 
terrify the maids with her accounts, until they are afraid to 
go up to bed." 

I sat with them until it was very late, sometimes in merry, 
sometimes in serious discourse, with this particular pleasure, 
which gives the only true relish to all conversation, a sense 
that every one of us liked each other. I went home, consid- 
ering the different conditions of a married life and that of a 
bachelor ; and I must confess, it struck me with a secret con- 
cern to reflect that whenever I go off I shall leave no traces 
behind me. In this pensive mood I returned to my family ; 
that is to say, to my maid, my dog, and my cat, who only can 
be the better or worse for what happens to me. [Steele] 



82 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

THE CLUB AT THE TRUMPET 
No. 132. February 11, 1710 

Habeo senediiti magfiam gratiam, qttce mihi sermonis aviditatem auxit^ 

potionis et cibi siistulit. 

Sheer La?ie, February 10 

After having applied my mind with more than ordinary 
attention to my studies, it is my usual custom to relax and 
unbend it in the conversation of such as are rather easy than 
shining companions. This I find particularly necessary for me 
before I retire to rest, in order to draw my slumbers upon me 
by degrees, and fall asleep insensibly. This is the particular 
use I make of a set of heavy honest men, with whom I have 
passed many hours, with much indolence, though not with 
great pleasure. Their conversation is a kind of preparative for 
sleep : it takes the mind down from its abstractions, leads it 
into the familiar traces of thought, and lulls it into that state 
of tranquillity, which is the condition of a thinking man when 
he is but half awake. After this, my reader will not be sur- 
prised to hear the account which I am about to give of a club 
of my own contemporaries, among whom I pass two or three 
hours every evening. This I look upon as taking my first nap 
before I go to bed. The truth of it is, I should think myself 
unjust to posterity, as well as to the society at the Trumpet, of 
which I am a member, did not I in some part of my writings 
give an account of the persons among whom I have passed 
almost a sixth part of my time for these last forty years. Our 
club consisted originally of fifteen ; but partly by the severity 
of the law in arbitrary times, and partly by the natural effects 
of old age, we are at present reduced to a third part of that 
number : in which, however, we have this consolation, that the 
best company is said to consist of five persons. I must con- 
fess, besides the aforementioned benefit which I meet with 
in the conversation of this select society, I am not the less 



THE TATLER 83 

pleased with the company, in that I find myself the greatest 
wit among them, and am heard as their oracle in all points of 
■learning and difficulty. 

Sir Jeoffrey Notch, who is the oldest of the club, has been 
in possession of the right-hand chair time out of mind, and is 
the only man among us that has the liberty of stirring the fire. 
This our foreman is a gentleman of an ancient family, that 
came to a great estate some years before he had discretion, 
and run it out in hounds, horses, and cock-fighting ; for which 
reason he looks upon himself as an honest worthy gentleman 
who has had misfortunes in the world, and calls every thriving 
man a pitiful upstart. 

Major Matchlock is the next senior, who served in the last 
civil wars, and has all the battles by heart. He does not think 
any action in Europe worth talking of since the fight of 
Marston Moor ; and every night tells us of his having been 
knocked off his horse at the rising of the London apprentices ; 
for which he is in great esteem among us. 

Honest old Dick Reptile is the third of our society : 
he is a good-natured indolent man, who speaks little him- 
self, but laughs at our jokes, and brings his young nephew 
along with him, a youth of eighteen years old, to show him 
good company, and give him a taste of the world. This 
young fellow sits generally silent ; but whenever he opens 
his mouth, or laughs at anything that passes, he is con- 
stantly told by his uncle, after a jocular manner, '*Ay, ay. 
Jack, you young men think us fools ; but we old men know 
you are." 

The greatest wit of our company, next to myself, is a 
bencher of the neighbouring inn, who in his youth frequented 
the ordinaries about Charing Cross, and pretends to have 
been intimate with Jack Ogle. He has about ten distichs of 
Httdibras without book, and never leaves the club till he 
has applied them all. If any modern wit be mentioned, or any 
town frolic spoken of, he shakes his head at the dulness of 
the present age, and tells us a story of Jack Ogle. 



84 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

For my own part, I am esteemed among them, because they 
see I am something respected by others, though at the same 
time I understand by their behaviour, that I am considered by 
them as a man of a great deal of learning, but no knowledge 
of the world ; insomuch that the Major sometimes, in the 
height of his military pride, calls me the philosopher : and 
Sir Jeoffrey, no longer ago than last night, upon a dispute 
what day of the month it was then in Holland, pulled his 
pipe out of his mouth, and cried, " What does the scholar 
say to it ? " 

Our club meets precisely at six o'clock in the evening ; but 
I did not come last night until half an hour after seven, by 
which means I escaped the battle of Naseby, which the Major 
usually begins at about three-quarters after six ; I found also, 
that my good friend the bencher had already spent three of 
his distichs, and only waiting an opportunity to hear a sermon 
spoken of, that he might introduce the couplet where " a 
stick " rhymes to '' ecclesiastic." At my entrance into the room, 
they were naming a red petticoat and a cloak, by which I 
found that the bencher had been diverting them with a story 
of Jack Ogle. 

I had no sooner taken my seat, but Sir Jeoffrey, to show 
his good-will towards me, gave me a pipe of his own tobacco, 
and stirred up the fire. I look upon it as a point of morality, 
to be obliged by those who endeavour to oblige me ; and there- 
fore, in requital for his kindness, and to set the conversation 
a-going, I took the best occasion I could to put him upon tell- 
ing us the story of old Gantlett, which he always does with 
very particular concern. He traced up his descent on both 
sides for several generations, describing his diet and manner 
of life, with his several battles, and particularly that in which 
he fell. This Gantlett was a game-cock, upon whose head the 
knight in his youth had won five hundred pounds, and lost 
two thousand. This naturally set the Major upon the account 
of Edge-hill fight, and ended in a duel of Jack Ogle's. 



THE TATLER 85 

Old Reptile was extremely attentive to all that was said, 
though it was the same he had heard every night for these 
twenty years, and, upon all occasions, winked upon his nephew 
to mind what passed. 

This may suffice to give the world a taste of our innocent 
conversation, which we spun out until about ten of the clock, 
when my maid came with a lantern to light me home. I could 
not but reflect with myself, as I was going out, upon the talka- 
tive humour of old men, and the little figure which that part 
of life makes in one who cannot employ this natural propensity 
in discourses which would make him venerable. I must own, 
it makes me very melancholy in company, when I hear a young 
man begin a story ; and have often observed, that one of a 
quarter of an hour long in a man of five-and-twenty, gathers 
circumstances every time he tells it, until it grows into a long 
Canterbury tale of tw^o hours by that time he is threescore. 

The only way of avoiding such a trifling and frivolous old 
age is to lay up in our way to it such stores of knowledge and 
observation as may make us useful and agreeable in our declin- 
ing years. The mind of man in a long life will become a maga- 
zine of wisdom or folly, and will consequently discharge itself 
in something impertinent or improving. For which reason, as 
there is nothing more ridiculous than an old trifling story-teller, 
so there is nothing more venerable than one who has turned 
his experience to the entertainment and advantage of mankind. 

In short, we who are in the last stage of life, and are apt to 
indulge ourselves in talk, ought to consider, if what we speak 
be worth being heard, and endeavour to make our discourse 
like that of Nestor, which Homer compares to the flowing of 
honey for its sweetness. 

I am afraid I shall be thought guilty of this excess I am 
speaking of, when I cannot conclude without observing, that 
Milton certainly thought of this passage in Homer, when, in 
his description of an eloquent spirit, he says, '* His tongue 
dropped manna." [Steele] 



86 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

THE CHARACTER OF TOM FOLIO 

No. 158. April 13, 1 7 10 

Faciunt na mtelligejido^ lit nihil ijitelligant. 
From my own Apai'tnient^ Apiil 12 

Tom Folio is a broker in learning, employed to get together 
good editions, and stock the libraries of great men. There is 
not a sale of books begins till Tom Folio is seen at the door. 
There is not an auction where his name is not heard, and that 
too in the very nick of time, in the critical moment, before the 
last decisive stroke of the hammer. There is not a subscription 
goes forward, in which Tom is not privy to the first rough 
draught of the proposals ; nor a catalogue printed, that does not 
come to him wet from the press. He is an universal scholar, 
so far as the title-page of all authors, knows the manuscripts 
in which they were discovered, the editions through which they 
have passed, with the praises or censures which they have re- 
ceived from the several members of the learned world. He has 
a greater esteem for Aldus and Elzevir than for Virgil and 
Horace. If you talk of Herodotus, he breaks out into a pane- 
gyric upon Harry Stephans. He thinks he gives you an ac- 
count of an author when he tells you the subject he treats of, 
the name of the editor, and the year in which it w^as printed. 
Or if you draw him into further particulars, he cries up the 
goodness of the paper, extolls the diligence of the corrector, 
and is transported with the beauty of the letter. This he looks 
Upon to be sound learning and substantial criticism. As for 
those who talk of the fineness of style, and the justness of 
thought, or describe the brightness of any particular passages, 
nay, though they write themselves in the genius and spirit of 
the author they admire, Tom looks upon them as men of 
superficial learning and flashy parts. 

I had yesterday morning a visit from this learned idiot (for 
that is the light in which I consider every pedant), when I 



THE TATLER . 87 

discovered in him some little touches of the coxcomb which I 
had not before observed. Being very full of the figure which 
he makes in the republic of letters, and wonderfully satisfied 
with his great stock of knowledge, he gave me broad intima- 
tions that he did not ''believe " in all points as his forefathers 
had done. He then communicated to me a thought of a cer- 
tain author upon a passage of Virgil's account of the dead, 
which I made the subject of a late paper. This thought has 
taken very much among men of Tom's pitch and understand- 
ing, though universally exploded by all that know how to con- 
strue Virgil, or have any relish of antiquity. Not to trouble 
my reader with it, I found upon the whole that Tom did not 
believe a future state of rewards and punishments, because 
^neas, at his leaving the empire of the dead, passed through 
the gate of ivory, and not through that of horn. Knowing that 
Tom had not sense enough to give up an opinion which he 
had once received, that he might avoid wrangling, I told him 
that Virgil possibly had his oversights as well as another author. 
''Ah! Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, "you would have another 
opinion of him if you would read him in Daniel Heinsius' edi- 
tion. I have perused him myself several times in that edition," 
continued he ; " and after the strictest and most malicious ex- 
amination, could find but two faults in him : one of them is in 
the y^neids, where there are two commas instead of a paren- 
thesis ; and another in the third Georgic, where you may find 
a semicolon turned upside down." "Perhaps," said I, "these 
were not Virgil's faults, but those of the transcriber." " I do 
not design it," says Tom, " as a reflection on Virgil: on the 
contrary, I know that all the manuscripts reclaim against such 
a punctuation. Oh ! Mr, Bickerstaff," says he, "what would a 
man give to see one simile of Virgil writ in his own hand .? " 
I asked him which was the simile he meant, but was answered, 
" Any simile in Virgil." He then told me all the secret history 
in the commonwealth of learning : of modern pieces that had 
the names of ancient authors annexed to them ; of all the 
books that were now writing or printing in the several parts 



88 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

of Europe ; of many amendments which are made, and not 
yet pubHshed ; and a thousand other particulars, which I would 
not have my memory burthened with for a Vatican. 

At length, being fully persuaded that I thoroughly admired 
him and looked upon him as a prodigy of learning, he took 
his leave, I know several of Tom's class who are professed 
admirers of Tasso without understanding a word of Italian, 
and one in particular that carries a Pastor Fido in his pocket, 
in which I am sure he is acquainted with no other beauty 
but the clearness of the character. 

There is another kind of pedant who, with all Tom Folio's 
impertinences, hath greater superstructures and embellishments 
of Greek and Latin, and is still more unsupportable than the 
other, in the same degree as he is more learned. Of this kind 
very often are editors, commentators, interpreters, scholiasts, 
and critics, and in short, all men of deep learning without com- 
mon sense. These persons set a greater value on themselves 
for having found out the meaning of a passage in Greek, than 
upon the author for having written it ; nay, will allow the pas- 
sage itself not to have any beauty in it, at the same time that 
they would be considered as the greatest men of the age for 
having interpreted it. They wall look with contempt upon the 
most beautiful poems that have been composed by any of their 
contemporaries ; but will lock themselves up in their studies 
for a twelvemonth together to correct, publish, and expound 
such trifles of antiquity as a modern author would be contemned 
for. Men of the strictest morals, severest lives, and the gravest 
professions will write volumes upon an idle sonnet that is origi- 
nally in Greek or Latin, give editions of the most immoral 
authors, and spin out whole pages upon the various readings 
of a lewd expression. All that can be said in excuse for them 
is that their works sufficiently show they have no taste of their 
authors, and that what they do in this kind is out of their great 
learning and not out of any levity or lasciviousness of temper. 

A pedant of this nature is wonderfully well described in six 
lines of Boileau, with which I shall conclude his character : 



THE TATLER 89 

U)i Pedant enivre de sa vaine science^ 
Tout Jicrisse de Grec^ tout bouffi d'' arrogance^ 
Et qui^ de niille aiiteurs retenus mot pour inot^ 
Dans sa tete entasses ri'a souvent fait quhin sot, 
Croit qti'un livre fait tout, <Sr° que, sans Aristote^ 
La raison ne 7'oit goutte, &^ le .boii sens radote. 

[Addison] 



RECOLLECTIONS 

No. 181. June 6, 1710 
Dies, ni fallor, adest, qiiem semper acerbiim, 



Se?nper honoratum (sic di voliiistis), habebo. 
Ej^ojn my own Apartjnent, June 5 

There are those among mankind who can enjoy no relish 
of their being except the world is made acquainted with all 
that relates to them, and think everything lost that passes 
unobserved ; but others find a solid delight in stealing by the 
crowd, and modelling their life after such a manner as is as 
much above the approbation as the practice of the vulgar. Life 
being too short to give instances great enough of true friend- 
ship or good-will, some sages have thought it pious to preserve 
a certain reverence for the manes of their deceased friends, 
and have withdrawn themselves from the rest of the world at 
certain seasons, to commemorate in their own thoughts such 
of their acquaintance who have gone before them out of this 
life : and indeed, when we are advanced in years, there is not 
a more pleasing entertainment than to recollect in a gloomy 
moment the many we have parted with that have been dear 
and agreeable to us, and to cast a melancholy thought or two 
after those with whom, perhaps, we have indulged ourselves 
in whole nights of mirth and jollity. With such inclinations 
in my heart I went to my closet yesterday in the evening, and 
resolved to be sorrowful ; upon which occasion I could not but 
look with disdain upon myself, that though all the reasons 



90 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

which I had to lament the loss of many of my friends are now 
as forcible as at the moment of their departure, yet did not 
my heart swell with the same sorrow which I felt at that time ; 
but I could, without tears, reflect upon many pleasing adven- 
tures I have had with some who have long been blended with 
common earth. Though it is by the benefit of nature that 
length of time thus blots out the violence of afflictions ; yet 
with tempers too much given to pleasure, it is almost necessary 
to revive the old places of grief in our memoiy, and ponder 
step by step on past life, to lead the mind into that sobriety 
of thought which poises the heart, and makes it beat with due 
time, without being quickened with desire, or retarded with 
despair, from its proper and equal motion. When we wind 
up a clock that is out of order, to make it go well for the 
future, we do not immediately set the hand to the present in- 
stant, but we make it strike the round of all its hours, before 
it can recover the regularity of its time. '' Such," thought I, 
'' shall be my method this evening ; and since it is that day 
of the year which I dedicate to the memory of such in an- 
other life as I much delighted in when living, an hour or two 
shall be sacred to sorrow and their memory, while I run over 
all the melancholy circumstances of this kind which have 
occurred to me in my whole life." 

The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death 
of my father, at which time I was not quite five years of age ; 
but was rather amazed at what -all the house meant than pos- 
sessed with a real understanding why nobody was willing to 
play with me. I remember I went into the room where his 
body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone by it. I had my 
battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating the coffin, and calling 
" Papa " ; for, I know not how, I had some slight idea that 
he was locked up there. My mother catched me in her arms, 
and transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she was 
before in, she almost smothered me in her embrace, and told 
me in a flood of tears, papa could not hear me, and would 
play with me no more, for they were. going to put him under 



THE TATLER 91 

ground, whence he could never come to us again. She was 
a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a 
dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport 
which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sorrow, which, 
before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very 
soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. 
The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the body in embryo, 
and receives impressions so forcible that they are as hard to 
be removed by reason as any mark with which a child is born 
is to be taken away by any future application. Hence it is 
that good-nature in me is no merit ; but having been so fre- 
quently overwhelmed with her tears before I knew the cause 
of any affliction, or could draw defences from my own judg- 
ment, I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an unmanly 
gentleness of mind, which has since ensnared me into ten 
thousand calamities, and from whence I can reap no advantage, 
except it be that in such a humour as I am now in, I can the 
better indulge myself in the softness of humanity, and enjoy 
that sweet anxiety which arises from the memory of past 
afflictions. 

We that are very old are better able ■ to remember things 
which befell us in our distant youth than the passages of later 
days. For this reason it is that the companions of my strong 
and vigorous years present themselves more immediately to me 
in this office of sorrow. Untimely or unhappy deaths are what 
we are most apt to lament, so little are we able to make it in- 
different when a thing happens, though we know it must happen. 
Thus we groan under life, and bewail those who are relieved 
from it. Every object that returns to our imagination raises 
different passions according to the circumstance of their de- 
parture. Who can have lived in an army, and in a serious 
hour reflect upon the many gay and agreeable men that might 
long have flourished in the arts of peace, and not join with the 
imprecations of the fatherless and widow on the tyrant to whose 
ambition they fell sacrifices } But gallant men, who are cut off 
by the sword, move rather our veneration than our pity, and 



92 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

we gather relief enough from their own contempt of death, to 
make it no evil, which was approached with so much cheerful- 
ness, and attended with so much honour. But when we turn 
our thoughts from the great parts of life on such occasions, 
and instead of lamenting those who stood ready to give death 
to those from whom they had the fortune to receive it ; I say, 
when we let our thoughts wander from such noble objects, and 
consider the havoc which is made among the tender and the 
innocent, pity enters with an unmixed softness, and possesses 
all our souls at once. 

Here (were there words to express such sentiments with 
proper tenderness) I should record the beauty, innocence, and 
untimely death of the first object my eyes ever beheld with 
love. The beauteous virgin ! How ignorantly did she charm, 
how carelessly excel ! O, Death ! thou hast right to the bold, 
to the ambitious, to the high, and to the haughty ; but why 
this cruelty to the humble, to the meek, to the undiscerning, to 
the thoughtless ? Nor age, nor business, nor distress can erase 
the dear image from my imagination. In the same week, I 
saw her dressed for a ball, and in a shroud. How ill did the 
habit of Death become the pretty trifler ! I still behold the 
smiling earth — A large train of disasters were coming on to 
my memory, when my servant knocked at my closet-door, and 
interrupted me with a letter, attended with a hamper of wine, 
of the same sort with that which is to be put to sale on Thurs- 
day next at Garraway's Coffee-house. Upon the receipt of it 
I sent for three of my friends. We are so intimate that we 
can be company in whatever state of mind we meet, and can 
entertain each other without expecting always to rejoice. The 
wine we found to be generous and warming, but with such a 
heat as moved us rather to be cheerful than frolicsome. It 
revived the spirits without firing the blood. We commended 
it till two of the clock this morning, and having to-day met a 
little before dinner, we found that, though we drank two bottles 
a man, we had much more reason to recollect than forget 
what had passed the night before. [Steele] 



THE TATLER 93 

FALSE REFINEMENTS IN STYLE 

No. 230. September 28, 17 10 

From 'my own Apartmejit^ Sept. 2"/ 

The following letter has laid before me many great and 
manifest evils in the world of letters which I had overlooked ; 
but they open to me a very busy scene, and it will require no 
small care and application to amend errors which are become 
so universal. The affectation of politeness is exposed in this 
epistle with a great deal of wit and discernment ; so that what- 
ever discourses I may fall into hereafter upon the subjects 
the writer treats of, I shall at present lay the matter before 
the world without the least alteration from the words of my 
correspondent. 

To Isaac Bickerstaff, Esg. 
Sir, 

There are some abuses among us of great consequence, the reformation 
of which is properly your province ; though, as far as I have been conver- 
sant in your papers, you have not yet considered them. These are the 
deplorable ignorance that for some years hath reigned among our English 
writers, the great depravity of our taste, and the continual corruption of our 
style. I say nothing here of those who handle particular sciences, divinity, 
law, physic, and the like ; I mean the traders in history and politics, and 
the belles lettres^ together with those by whom books are not translated, but 
(as the common expressions are) done out of French, Latin, or other language, 
and made English. I cannot but observe to you that till of late years a Grub 
Street book was always bound in sheepskin, with suitable print and paper, 
the price never above a shilling, and taken off wholly by common trades- 
men or country pedlars ; but now they appear in all sizes and shapes, and 
in all places. They are handed about from lapfuls in every coffee-house to 
persons of quality; are shown in Westminster Hall and the Court of Re- 
quests. You may see them gilt, and in royal paper of five or six hundred 
pages, and rated accordingly. I would engage to furnish you with a cata- 
logue of English books, published within the compass of seven years past, 
which at the first hand would cost you a hundred pounds, wherein you shall 
not be able to find ten lines together of common grammar or common sense. 

These two evils, ignorance and want of taste, have produced a third : I 
mean the continual corruption of our English tongue, which, without some 



94 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

timely remedy, will suffer more by the false refinements of twenty years past 
than it hath been improved in the foregoing hundred. And this is what I de- 
sign chiefly to enlarge upon, leaving the former evils to your animadversion. 
But instead of giving you a list of the late refinements crept into our 
language, I here send you the copy of a letter I received some time ago 
from a most accomplished person in this way of writing; upon which I 
shall make some remarks. It is in these terms : 

" Sir, 

" I coti'dji'i get the things you sent for all about town — I thot to ha' 
come down myself, and then I'd //' brof um ; but I ha'' nt don V, and I 
believe I caii't d't, that 'j poss — Tom begins to gi ''mself dius,^ because 
he ''s going with \he.plenipo''s — 'T is said the French King will baniboozViis 
agen, which causes 7nany speculations. The Jacks and others of that kid- 
ney are very uppish^ and alert npon 7, as you may see by their phisz's — 
Will Hazzard has got the hipps^ having lost to the tune o/ five hundr'd 
pound, tho he understands play very well, nobody better. He has promis't 
me upon rep^ to leave off play ; but you know 't is a weakness he 'j- too 
apt to give i?ito, tho he has as much wit as any man, ?iobody more. He 
has lain incog ever since — The niobb V very quiet with us now — I believe 
you thot I banter'' d you in my last, like a country put — I shatVl leave 
town this month," etc. 

This letter is in every point an admirable pattern of the present polite 
way of writing, nor is it of less authority for being an epistle : you may 
gather every flower in it, with a thousand more of equal sweetness, from the 
books, pamphlets, and single papers offered us every day in the coffee- 
houses : and these are the beauties introduced to supply the want of wit, 
sense, humour, and learning, which formerly were looked upon as qualifica- 
tions for a writer. If a man of wit, who died forty years ago, were to rise 
from the grave on purpose, how would he be able to read this letter .? And 
after he had got through that difficulty, how would he be able to understand 
it? The first thing that strikes your eye, is the breaks at the end of almost 
every sentence, of which I know not the use, only that it is a refinement, 
and very frequently practised. Then you will observe the abbreviations and 
elisions, by which consonants of most obdurate sound are joined together, 
without one softening vowel to intervene ; and all this only to make one 
syllable of two, directly contrary to the example of the Greeks and Romans, 
altogether of the Gothic strain, and a natural tendency towards relapsing 
into barbarity, which delights in monosyllables, and uniting of mute con- 
sonants, as it is observable in all the Northern languages. And this is still 
more visible in the next refinement, which consists in pronouncing the first 
syllable in a word that has many, and dismissing the rest ; such as phizz., 
hipps., mobb., pozz., rep., and many more, when we are already overloaded 



THE TATLER 95 

with monosyllables, which are the disgrace of our language. Thus we cram 
one syllable, and cut off the rest, as the owl fattened her mice after she had 
bit off their legs to prevent them from running away ; and if ours be the 
same reason for maiming our words, it will certainly answer the end, for I 
am sure no other nation will desire to borrow them. Some words are hitherto 
but fairly split, and therefore only in their way to perfection, as incog and 
pie?iipo : but in a short time 'tis to be hoped they will be further docked to 
ijic dindplen. This reflection has made me of late years very impatient for 
a peace, which I believe would save the lives of many brave words, as well 
as men. The war has introduced abundance of polysyllables, which will 
never be able to live many more campaigns: speculations, opei'ations^pre- 
li7niftaries, ainbassadoi's, palisadoes, com.intinication, circumvallatioii, 
battalions : as numerous as they are, if they attack us too frequently in our 
coffee-houses, we shall certainly put them to flight, and cut off the rear. 

The third refinement observable in the letter I send you consists in the 
choice of certain words, invented by some pretty fellows, such as bajite?', 
bajnboosle^ countjy put, and kidney, as it is there applied; some of which 
are now struggling for the vogue, and others are in possession of it. I have 
done my utmost for some years past to stop the progress of jnobb and 
banter, but have been plainly borne down by numbers, and betrayed by 
those who promised to assist me. 

In the last place, you are to take notice of certain choice phrases scattered 
through the letter, some of them tolerable enough, until they were worn to 
rags by servile imitators. You might easily find them, though they were not 
in a different print, and therefore I need not disturb them. 

These are the false refinements in our style which you ought to correct : 
first, by argument and fair means ; but if these fail, I think you are to make 
use of your authority as Censor, and by an annual Index Expurgatorius 
expunge all words and phrases that are offensive to good sense, and condemn 
those barbarous mutilations of vowels and syllables. In this last point the 
usual pretence is, that they spell as they speak : a noble standard for lan- 
guage ! To depend upon the caprice of every coxcomb who, because words 
are the clothing of our thoughts, cuts them out and shapes them as he pleases, 
and changes them oftener than his dress ! I believe all reasonable people 
would be content that such refiners were more sparing in their words, and 
liberal in their syllables : and upon this head I should be glad you would 
bestow some advice upon several young readers in our churches, who, coming 
up from the university full fraught with admiration of our town politeness, 
will needs correct the style of their prayer-books. In reading the Abso- 
lution, they are very careful to S2iy pardons and absolves ; and in the prayer 
for the royal family, it must be endue'' urn, enricWiDn, prosper^ uni, and 
bring'' uni. Then in their sermons they use all the modern terms of art: 
sha7n, banter, mobb, bubble, bully, cutting, shuffling, and palming-, all 



96 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

which, and many more of the like stamp, as I have heard them often in the 
pulpit from such young sophisters, so I have read them in some of those 
sermons that have made most noise of late. The design, it seems, is to 
avoid the dreadful imputation of pedantry ; to show us that they know the 
town, understand men and manners, and have not been poring upon old 
unfashionable books in the university. 

I should be glad to see you the instrument of introducing into our style 
that simplicity which is the best and truest ornament of most things in life, 
which the politer age always aimed at in their building and dress {simplex 
jnunditiis)^ as well as their productions of wit. It is manifest that all new 
affected modes of speech, whether borrowed from the court, the town, or 
the theatre, are the first perishing parts in any language : and, as I could 
prove by many hundred instances, have been so in ours. The writings of 
Hooker, who was a country clergyman, and of Parsons the Jesuit, both in 
the reign of Queen Elizabeth, are in a style that, with very few allowances, 
would not offend any present reader ; much more clear and intelligible than 
those of Sir H. Wotton, Sir Rob. Naunton. Osborn, Daniel the historian, 
and several others who wrote later ; but being men of the court, and affect- 
ing the phrases then in fashion, they are often either not to be understood, 
or appear perfectly ridiculous. 

What remedies are to be applied to these evils, I have not room to 
consider, having, I fear, already taken up most of your paper. Besides, 
I think it is our office only to represent abuses, and yours to redress them. 
I am, with great respect. 

Sir, 

Your, &c. 

[Steele and Swift] 



ON CONVERSATION 

No. 244. October 31, 1710 

Quid voveat dulci nutricula majiis aluvino^ 
Qui sapere et fari possit quce sentiat ? — 

WilVs Coffee-house, Oct. jo 

It is no easy matter, when people are advancing in anything, 
to prevent their going too fast for want of patience. This 
happens in nothing more frequently than in the prosecution 
of studies. Hence it is, that we meet crowds who attempt to 



THE TATLER 97 

be eloquent before they can speak. They affect the flowers of 
rhetoric before they understand the parts of speech. In the 
ordinary conversation of this town, there are so many who can, 
as they call it, talk well, that there is not one in twenty that 
talks to be understood. This proceeds from an ambition to 
excel, or, as the term is, to shine, in company. The matter is 
not to make themselves understood, but admired. They come 
together with a certain emulation, rather than benevolence. 
When you fall among such companions, the safe way is to give 
yourself up, and let the orators declaim for your esteem, and 
trouble yourself no further. It is said that a poet must be born 
so ; but I think it may be much better said of an orator, espe- 
cially when we talk of our town poets and orators ; but the town 
poets are full of rules and laws, the town orators go through 
thick and thin, and are, forsooth, persons of such eminent 
natural parts and knowledge of the world, that they despise 
all men as inexperienced scholastics who wait for an occasion 
before they speak, or who speak no more than is necessary. 
They had half persuaded me to go to the tavern the other 
night, but that a gentleman whispered me, '' Prithee, Isaac, 
go with us ; there is Tom Varnish will be there, and he is a 
fellow that talks as well as any man in England." 

I must confess, when a man expresses himself well upon any 
occasion, and his falling into an account of any subject arises 
from a desire to oblige the company, or from fulness of the 
circumstance itself, so that his speaking of it at large is occa- 
sioned only by the openness of a companion ; I say, in such a 
case as this, it is not only pardonable but agreeable, when a man 
takes the discourse to himself ; but when you see a fellow watch 
for opportunities for being copious, it is excessively troublesome. 
A man that stammers, if he has understanding, is to be at- 
tended with patience and good-nature; but he that speaks more 
than he need, has no right to such an indulgence. The man 
who has a defect in his speech takes pains to come to you, 
while a man of a weak capacity with fluency of speech tri- 
umphs in outrunning you. The stammerer strives to be fit 



98 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

for your company ; the loquacious man endeavours to show 
you, you are not fit for his. 

With thoughts of this kind do I ahvays enter into that man's 
company who is recommended as a person that talks well ; but 
if I were to choose the people with whom I would spend my 
hours of conversation, they should be certainly such as laboured 
no further than to make themselves readily and clearly appre- 
hended, and would have patience and curiosity to understand 
me. To have good sense and the ability to express it are the 
most essential and necessary qualities in companions. When 
thoughts rise in us fit to utter, among familiar friends there 
needs but very little care in clothing them. 

Urbanus is, I take it, a man one might live with whole years, 
and enjoy all the freedom and improvement imaginable, and 
yet be insensible of a contradiction to you in all the mistakes 
you can be guilty of. His great good-will to his friends has 
produced in him such a general deference in his discourse that 
if he differs from you in his sense of anything, he introduces 
his own thoughts by some agreeable circumlocution, or he has 
often observed such and such a circumstance that made him of 
another opinion. Again, where another would be apt to say, 
''This I am confident of; I may pretend to judge of this matter 
as well as anybody ; " Urbanus says, '' I am verily persuaded ; 
I believe one may conclude." In a word, there is no man more 
clear in his thoughts and expressions than he is, or speaks with 
greater diffidence. You shall hardly find one man of any con- 
sideration, but you shall observe one of less consequence form 
himself after him. This happens to Urbanus ; but the man 
who steals from him almost every sentiment he utters in a 
whole week, disguises the theft by carrying it with quite a dif- 
ferent air. Umbra tills knows Urbanus 's doubtful way of speak- 
ing proceeds from good-nature and good-breeding and not from 
uncertainty in his opinions. Umbratilis therefore has no more 
to do but repeat the thoughts of Urbanus in a positive manner, 
and appear to the undiscerning a wiser man than the person 
from whom he borrows : but those who know him can see the 



THE TATLER 99 

servant in the master's habit, and the more he struts, the less 
do his clothes appear his own. 

In conversation the medium is neither to affect silence nor 
eloquence ; not to value our approbation, and to endeavour to 
excel us who are of your company, are equal injuries. The 
great enemies therefore to good company, and those who trans- 
gress most against the laws of equality (which is the life of it), 
are the clown, the wit, and the pedant. A clown, when he has 
sense, is conscious of his want of education, and with an awk- 
ward bluntness hopes to keep himself in countenance by over- 
throwing the use of all polite behaviour. He takes advantage 
of the restraint good-breeding lays upon others not to offend 
him, to trespass against them, and is under the man's own 
shelter while he intrudes upon him. The fellows of this class 
are very frequent in the repetition of the words ''rough " and 
'' manly." When these people happen to be by their fortunes 
of the rank of gentlemen, they defend their other absurdities by 
an impertinent courage ; and to help out the defect of their be- 
haviour, add their being dangerous to their being disagreeable. 
This gentleman (though he displeases, professes to do so, and 
knowing that, dares still go on to do so) is not so painful a 
companion as he who will please you against your will, and 
resolves to be a wit. 

This man, upon all occasions and whoever he falls in com- 
pany with, talks in the same circle and in the same round of 
chat which he has learned at one of the tables of this coffee- 
house. As poetry is in itself an elevation above ordinary and 
common sentiments, so there is no fop so near a madman in 
indifferent company as a poetical one. He is not apprehensive 
that the generality of the world are intent upon the business 
of their own fortune and profession, and have as little capacity 
as curiosity to enter into matters of ornament or speculation. 
I remember at a full table in the City one of these ubiquitary 
wits was entertaining the company with a soliloquy (for so I 
call it when a man talks to those who do not understand him) 
concerning wit and humour. An honest gentleman who sat next 



lOO 



THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 



to me and was worth half a plum stared at him, and observing 
there was some sense, as he thought, mixed with his imperti- 
nence, whispered me, "Take my word for it, this fellow is more 
knave than fool." This was all my good friend's applause of 
the wittiest man of talk that I was ever present at, which wanted 
nothing to make it excellent but that there was no occasion 
for it. 

The pedant is so obvious to ridicule that it would be to be 
one to offer to explain him. He is a gentleman so well known 
that there is none but those of his own class who do not laugh 
at and avoid him. Pedantry proceeds from much reading and 
little understanding. A pedant among men of learning and 
sense is like an ignorant servant giving an account of a polite 
conversation. You may find he has brought with him more 
than could have entered into his head without being there, but 
still that he is not a bit wiser than if he had not been there 
at all. [Steele] 



//i? 



THE SPECTATOR (1711-1712) 

THE CHARACTER OF MR. SPECTATOR 

No. I. Thursday, March i, 1711 

Non fumiim ex fulgore, sed ex fiimo dare luceiJi 
Cogitate ut speciosa dehinc nm'acida promat. — Hor. 

I have observed that a reader seldom peruses a book with 
pleasure till he knows whether the writer of it be a black or 
a fair man, of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a 
bachelor, with other particulars of the like nature, that conduce 
very much to the right understanding of an author. To gratify 
this curiosity, which is so natural in a reader, I design this 
pap'er and my next as prefatory discourses to my following 
writings, and shall give some account in them of the several 
persons that are engaged in this work. As the chief trouble 
of compiling, digesting, and correcting will fall to my share, 
I must do myself the justice to open the work with my own 
history. 

\\ was born to a small hereditary estate, which, according to 
the tradition of the village where it lies, was bounded by the ^/na^ 
same hedges and ditches in William the Conqueror's time that j^pK, ^i ^ 
it is at present, and has been delivered down from father to j2,(wJL, 
son, whole and entire, without the loss or acquisition of a 
single field or meadow, during the space of six hundred years .\ 
There runs a story in the family, that, when my mother was 
gone with child of me about three months, she dreamed that 
she was brought to bed of a judge. Whether this might 
proceed from a law-suit which was then depending in the 
family, or my father's being a justice of the peace, I cannot 



lOI 



102 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

determine ; for I am not so vain as to think it presaged any 
dignity that I should arrive at in my future hfe, though that 
was the interpretation which the neighbourhood put upon it. 
The gravity of my behaviour at my very first appearance in 
the world, and all the time that I sucked, seemed to favour my 
mother's dream ; for, as she has often told me, I threw away 
my rattle before I was two months old, and would not make 
use of my coral till they had taken away the bells from it. 

As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing in it 
remarkable, I shall pass over it in silence. I find that during 
my nonage, I had the reputation of a very sullen youth, but 
was always a favourite of my schoolmaster, who used to say 
"that my parts were solid, and would wear well." I had not 
been long at the university before I distinguished myself by 
a most profound silence ; for during the space of eight years, 
excepting in the public exercises of the college, I scarce ut- 
tered the quantity of a hundred words ; and indeed do not 
remember that I ever spoke three sentences together in my 
whole life. While I was in this learned body, I applied my- 
self with so much diligence to my studies, that there are few 
very celebrated books, either in the learned or the modern 
tongues, which I am not acquainted with. 

Upon the death of my father, I was resolved to travel into 
foreign countries, and therefore left the university with the 
character of an odd, unaccountable fellow, that had a great 
deal of learning, if I would but show it. An insatiable thirst 
after knowledge carried me into all the countries of Europe 
in which there was anything new or strange to be seen ; nay, 
to such a degree was my curiosity raised, that having read the 
controversies of some great men concerning the antiquities of 
Egypt, I made a voyage to Grand Cairo on purpose to take 
the measure of a pyramid ; and as soon as I had set myself 
right in that particular, returned to my native country with 
great satisfaction. 

I have passed my latter years in this city, where I am fre- 
quently seen in most public places, though there are not above 



THE SPECTATOR 103 

half-a-dozen of my select friends that know me ; of whom my 
next paper shall give a more particular account. There is no 
place of general resort wherein I do not often make my appear- 
ance. Sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a round 
of politicians at Will's, and listening with great attention to 
the narratives that are made in those little circular audiences. 
Sometimes I smoke a pipe at Child's, and whilst I seem atten- 
tive to nothing but the Postman, overhear the conversation of 
every table in the room. I appear on Sunday nights at St. 
James's coffee-house, and sometimes join the little committee 
of politics in the inner room, as one who comes there to hear 
and improve. My face is likewise very well known at the 
Grecian, the Cocoa-tree, and in the theaters both of Drury- 
lane and the Haymarket. I have been taken for a merchant 
upon the exchange for above these ten years, and sometimes 
pass for a Jew in the assembly of stock-jobbers at Jonathan's. 
In short, wherever I see a cluster of people, I always mix with 
them, though I never open my lips but in my own club. 

Thus I live in the world rather as a Spectator of mankind 
than as one of the species, by which means I have made my- 
self a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, 
without ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am 
very well versed in the theory of a husband, or a father, and 
can discern the errors in the economy, business, and diversions 
of others, better than those who are engaged in them ; as 
standers-by discover blots, which are apt to escape those who 
are in the game. I never espoused any party with violence, 
and am resolved to observe a strict neutrality between the 
Whigs and Tories, unless I shall be forced to declare myself 
by the hostilities of either side. In short, I have acted in all 
the parts of my life as a looker-on, which is the character I 
intend to preserve in this paper. 

I have given the reader just so much of my history and 
character as to let him see I am not altogether unqualified for 
the business I have undertaken. As for other particulars in 
my life and adventures, I shall insert them in following papers 



) 



I04 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

as I shall see occasion. In the mean time, when I consider 
how much I have seen, read, and heard, I begin to blame my 
own taciturnity ; and since I have neither time nor inclination 
to communicate the fulness of my heart in speech, I am re- 
solved to do it in writing, and to print myself out, if possible, 
before I die. I have been often told by my friends that it is 
pity so many useful discoveries which I have made, should be 
in the possession of a silent man. For this reason, therefore, 
I shall publish a sheetful of thoughts every morning for the 
benefit of my contemporaries ; and if I can any way contribute 
to the diversion or improvement of the country in which I 
live, I shall leave it, when I am summoned out of it, with the 
secret satisfaction of thinking that I have not lived in vain. 

There are three very material points which I have not 
spoken to in this paper, and which, for several important 
reasons, I must keep to myself, at least for some time : I 
mean, an account of my name, my age, and my lodgings. I 
must confess, I .would gratify my reader in anything that is 
reasonable ; but, as for these three particulars, though I am 
sensible they might tend very much to the embellishment of 
my paper, I cannot yet come to a resolution of communicat- 
ing them to the public. They would indeed draw me out 
of that obscurity which I have enjoyed for many years, and 
expose me in public places to several salutes and civilities, 
which have been always very disagreeable to me ; for the 
greatest pain I can suffer is the being talked to, and being 
stared at. It is for this reason likewise, that I keep my com- 
plexion and dress as very great secrets ; though it is not im- 
possible but I may make discoveries of both in the progress 
of the work I have undertaken. 

After having been thus particular upon myself, I shall in 
to-morrow's paper give an account of those gentlemen who are 
concerned with me in this work ; for, as I have before inti- 
mated, a plan of it is laid and concerted (as all other matters 
of importance are) in a club. However, as my friends have 
engaged me to stand in the front, those who have a mind to 



THE SPECTATOR 105 

correspond with me, may direct their letters to the Spectator, 
at Mr. Buckley's, in Little Britain. For I must further acquaint 
the reader, that though our club meets only on Tuesdays and 
Thursdays, we have appointed a committee to sit every night, 
for the inspection of all such papers as may contribute to the 
advancement of the public weal. C [Addison] ! '^ ^ 



THE SPECTATOR CLUB 



No. 2. Friday, March 2, 1711 
-Haec alii sex 



Vel plu?-es uno conclamaiit ore. — Juv. 

The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, 
of ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. 
His great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country- 
dance which is called after him. All who know that shire are 
very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. 
He is a gentleman that is very singular in his behaviour, but 
his singularities proceed from his good sense, and are contra- 
dictions to the manners of the world only as he thinks the 
world is in the wrong. However, this humour creates him no 
enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy ; and 
his being unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the 
readier and more capable to please and oblige all who know 
him. When he is in town, he lives in Soho Square. It is said 
he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was crossed in love 
by a perverse, beautiful widow of the next county to him. Be- 
fore this disappointment. Sir Roger was what you call a fine 
gentleman ; had often supped with my Lord Rochester and 
Sir George Etherege, fought a duel upon his first coming to 
town, and kicked Bully Dawson in a public coffee-house for 
calling him ''youngster." But being ill-used by the above- 
mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year and a half ; 
and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at last got over 
it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed afterwards. 



io6 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut 
that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his 
merry humours, he tells us, has been in and out twelve times 
since he first wore it. 'Tis said Sir Roger grew humble in his 
desires after he had forgot this cruel beauty, insomuch that it 
is reported he has frequently offended in point of chastity with 
beggars and g^^psies ; but this is looked upon by his friends 
rather as matter of raillery than truth. He is now in his 
fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; keeps a good house 
in both town and country ; a great lover of mankind ; but there 
is such a mirthful cast in his behaviour that he is rather beloved 
than esteemed. His tenants grow rich, his servants look satis- 
fied, all the young women profess love to him, and the young 
men are glad of his company. When he comes into a house, 
he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way 
up-stairs to a visit. I must not omit that Sir Roger is a justice 
of the quorum ; that he fills the chair at a quarter session 
with great abilities ; and, three months ago, gained universal 
applause by explaining a passage in the Game Act. 

The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us is 
another bachelor, who is a member of the Inner Temple ; a 
man of great probity, wit, and understanding ; but he has chosen 
his place of residence rather to obey the direction of an old 
humoursome father, than in pursuit of his own inclinations. He 
was placed there to study the laws of the land, and is the most 
learned of any of the house in those of the stage. Aristotle 
and Longinus are much better understood by him than Littleton 
or Coke. The father sends up, every post, questions relating 
to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures, in the neighbourhood ; 
all which questions he agrees with an attorney to answer and 
take care of in the lump. He is studying the passions them- 
selves, when he should be inquiring into the debates among 
men which arise from them. He knows the argument of each 
of the orations of Demosthenes and Tully, but not one case 
in the reports of our own courts. No one ever took him for 
a fool, but none, except his intimate friends, know he has a 



THE SPECTATOR 107 

great deal of wit. This turn makes him at once both dis- 
interested and agreeable ; as few of his thoughts are drawn 
from business, they are most of them fit for conversation. 
His taste of books is a little too just for the age he lives in ; 
he has read all, but approves of very few. His familiarity with 
the customs, manners, actions, and writings of the ancients 
makes him a very delicate observer of what occurs to him in 
the present world. He is an excellent critic, and the time of 
the play is his hour of business ; exactly at five he passes 
through New Inn, crosses through Russell Court, and takes a 
turn at Will's till the play begins ; he has his shoes rubbed 
and his periwig powdered at the barber's as you go into the 
Rose. It is for the good of the audience when he is at a 
play, for the actors have an ambition to please him. 

The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport, 
a merchant of great eminence in the city of London. A person 
of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and great experience. 
His notions of trade are noble and generous, and (as every rich 
man has usually some sly way of jesting, which would make 
no great figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea the 
British Common. He is acquainted with commerce in all its 
parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid and barbarous way 
to extend dominion by arms : for true power is to be got by 
arts and industry. He will often argue that if this part of our 
trade were well cultivated, we should gain from one nation ; 
and if another, from another. I have heard him prove that 
diligence makes more lasting acquisitions than valour, and that 
sloth has ruined more nations than the sword. He abounds in 
several frugal maxims, among which the greatest favourite is, 
''A penny saved is a penny got." A general trader of good 
sense is pleasanter company than a general scholar ; and 
Sir Andrew having a natural unaffected eloquence, the per- 
spicuity of his discourse gives the same pleasure that wit 
would in another man. He has made his fortune himself ; 
and says that England may be richer than other kingdoms, 
by as plain methods as he himself is richer than other men : 



I08 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

though at the same time I can say this of him, that there is 
not a point in the compass, but blows home a ship in which 
he is an owner. 

Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Captain Sentry, 
a gentleman of great courage, good understanding, but invin- 
cible modesty. He is one of those that deserve very well, but 
are very awkward at putting their talents within the observa- 
tion of such as should take notice of them. He was some years 
a captain, and behaved himself with great gallantry in several 
engagements and at several sieges ; but having a small estate 
of his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted 
a way of life in which no man can rise suitably to his merit, 
who is not something of a courtier as well as a soldier. I have 
heard him often lament that in a profession where merit is 
placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence should get the 
better of modesty. When he had talked to this purpose, I 
never heard him make a sour expression, but frankly confess 
that he left the world because he was not fit for it. A strict 
honesty, and an even regular behaviour, are in themselves ob- 
stacles to him that must press through crowds, who endeavour 
at the same end with himself, the favour of a commander. He 
will, however, in his way of talk excuse generals for not dis- 
posing according to men's desert, or inquiring into it ; for, says 
he, that great man who has a mind to help me, has as many 
to break through to come at me, as I have to come at him : 
therefore he will conclude, that the man who would make a 
figure, especially in a military way, must get over all false mod- 
esty, and assist his patron against the importunity of other pre- 
tenders, by a proper assurance in his own vindication. He says 
it is a civil cowardice to be backward in asserting what you 
ought to expect, as it is a military fear to be slow in attacking 
when it is your duty. With this candour does the gendeman 
speak of himself and others. The same frankness runs through 
all his conversation. The military part of his life has furnished 
him with many adventures, in the relation of which he is very 
agreeable to the company ; for he is never overbearing, though 



THE SPECTATOR 109 

accustomed to command men in the utmost degree below him ; 
nor ever too obsequious, from a habit of obeying men highly 
above him. 

But that our society may not appear a set of humorists, un- 
acquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of the age, we 
have among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gentleman who, 
according to his years, should be in the decline of his life, but 
having ever been very careful of his person, and always had 
a very easy fortune, time has made but very little impression, 
either by wrinkles on his forehead, or traces in his brain. His 
person is well turned, of a good height. He is very ready at 
that sort of discourse with which men usually entertain women. 
He has all his life dressed very well, and remembers habits as 
others do men. He can smile when one speaks to him, and 
laughs easily. He knows the history of every mode, and can 
inform you from which of the French king's wenches our wives 
and daughters had this manner of curling their hair, that way 
of placing their hoods ; whose frailty was covered by such a 
sort of petticoat, and whose vanity to show her foot made that 
part of the dress so short in such a year. In a word, all his 
conversation and knowledge has been in the female world. As 
other men of his age will take notice to you what such a min- 
ister said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell you, 
when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court, such a woman 
was then smitten — another was taken with him at the head of 
his troop in the Park. In all these important relations, he has 
ever about the same time received a kind glance, or a blow of 
a fan from some celebrated beauty, mother of the present Lord 
Such-a-one. If you speak of a young commoner that said a 
lively thing in the house, he starts up, ''He has good blood 
in his veins, Tom Mirabell begot him ; the rogue cheated me 
in that affair ; that young fellow's mother used me more like 
a dog than any woman I ever made advances to." This way 
of talking of his very much enlivens the conversation among 
us of a more sedate turn ; and I find there is not one of the 
company, but myself, who rarely speak at all, but speaks of 



no THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

him as of that sort of man, who is usually called a well-bred 
fine gentleman. To conclude his character, where women are 
not concerned, he is an honest, worthy man. 

I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am next 
to speak of as one of our company, for he visits us but seldom ; 
but when he does, it adds to every man else a new enjoyment 
of himself. He is a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of 
general learning, great sanctity of life, and the most exact 
good-breeding. He has the misfortune to be of a very weak 
constitution, and consequently cannot accept of such cares and 
business as preferments in his function would oblige him to ; 
he is therefore among divines what a chamber-counsellor is 
among lawyers. The probity of his mind and the integrity 
of his life create him followers, as being eloquent or loud ad- 
vances others. He seldom introduces the subject he speaks 
upon ; but we are so far gone in years that he observes, when 
he is among us, an earnestness to have him fall on some di- 
vine topic, which he always treats with much authority, as one 
who has no interests in this world, as one who is hastening 
to the object of all his wishes, and conceives hope from his 
decays and infiripities. These are my ordinary companions. 
R [Steele] \^^ 

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS 

No. 7. Thursday, March 8, 1711 

Somnia^ te7'ro?'es ??iagicos, miracula^ sagas, 

Nodurnos lemures, portentaque Thessala 7'ides ? -. — HoR. 

Going yesterday to dine with an old acquaintance, I had the 
misfortune to find his whole family very much dejected. Upon 
asking him the occasion of it, he told me that his wife had 
dreamed a very strange dream the night before, which they 
were afraid portended some misfortune to themselves or to their 
children. At her coming into the room, I observed a settled 
melancholy in her countenance, which I should have been 



THE SPECTATOR ill 

troubled for, had I not heard from whence it proceeded. We 
were no sooner sat down, but after having looked upon me a 
little while, '' My dear," says she, turning to her husband, 
''you may now see the stranger that was in the candle last 
night." Soon after this, as they began to talk of family affairs, 
a little boy at the lower end of the table told her that he was 
to go into join-hand on Thursday. '* Thursday ! " says she, 
" No, child, if it please God, you shall not begin upon Childer- 
mas-day ; tell your writing-master that Friday will be soon 
enough." I was reflecting with myself on the oddness of her 
fancy, and wondering that anybody would establish it as a rule, 
to lose a day in every week. In the midst of these my musings, 
she desired me to reach her a little salt upon the point of my 
knife, which I did in such a trepidation and hurry of obedience, 
that I let it drop by the way ; at which she immediately star- 
tled, and said it fell toward her. Upon this I looked very 
blank ; and observing the concern of the whole table, began 
to consider myself, with some confusion, as a person that had 
brought a disaster upon the family. The lady, however, recov- 
ering herself after a little space, said to her husband with a 
sigh, '' My dear, misfortunes never come single." My friend, 
I found, acted but an under-part at his table, and being a 
man of more good-nature than understanding, thinks himself 
obliged to fall in with all the passions and humours of his 
yoke-fellow. "Do not you remember, child," says she, ''that 
the pigeon-house fell the very afternoon that our careless wench 
spilt the salt upon the table.?" "Yes," says he, "my dear, 
and . the next post brought us an account of the battle of 
Almanza." The reader may guess at the figure I made, after 
having done all this mischief. I dispatched my dinner as soon 
as I could, with my usual taciturnity ; when, to my utter con- 
fusion, the lady seeing me quitting my knife and fork, and 
laying them across one another upon my plate, desired me 
that I would humour her so far as to take them out of that 
figure, and place them side by side. What the absurdity was 
which I had committed I did not know, but I suppose there 



112 THE ENGLISH FAMH^IAR ESSAY 

was some traditionary superstition in it ; and therefore, in 
obedience to the lady of the house, I disposed of my knife 
and fork in two parallel lines, which is the figure I shall 
always lay them in for the future, though I do not know any 
reason for it. 

It is not difficult for a man to see that a person has con- 
ceived an aversion to him. For my own part, I quickly found, 
by the lady's looks, that she regarded me as a very odd kind 
of fellow, with an unfortunate aspect. For which reason I 
took my leave immediately after dinner, and withdrew to my 
own lodgings. Upon my return home, I fell into a profound 
contemplation on the evils that attend these superstitious follies 
of mankind ; how they subject us to imaginary afflictions, and 
additional sorrows, that do not properly come within our lot. 
As if the natural calamities of life were not sufficient for it, 
we turn the most indifferent circumstances into misfortunes, 
and suffer as much from trifling accidents as from real evils. 
I have known the shooting of a star spoil a night's rest ; and 
have seen a man in love grow pale, and lose his appetite, 
upon the plucking of a merry-thought. A screech-owl at 
midnight has alarmed a family more than a band of robbers ; 
nay, the voice of a cricket hath struck more terror than the 
roaring of a lion. There is nothing so inconsiderable, which 
may not appear dreadful to an imagination that is filled with 
omens and prognostics. A rusty nail, or a crooked pin, shoot 
up into prodigies. 

I remember I was once in a mixed assembly, that was full 
of noise and mirth, when on a sudden an old woman unluckily 
observed there were thirteen of us in company. This remark 
struck a panic terror into several who were present, insomuch 
that one or two of the ladies were going to leave the room ; 
but a friend of mine taking notice that one of our female com- 
panions was big with child, affirmed there were fourteen in 
the room, and that, instead of portending one of the company 
should die, it plainly foretold one of them should be born. 
Had not my friend found out this expedient to break the 



THE SPECTATOR 113 

omen, I question not but half the women in the company 
would have fallen sick that very night. 

An old maid that is troubled with the vapours produces infi- 
nite disturbances of this kind among her friends and neighbours. 
I know a maiden aunt of a great family, who is one of these 
antiquated sybils, that forebodes and prophesies from one end 
of the year to the other. She is always seeing apparitions, and 
hearing death-watches ; and was the other day almost frighted 
out of her wits by the great house-dog that howled in the 
stable, at a time when she lay ill with the tooth-ache. Such 
an extravagant cast of mind engages multitudes of people, not 
only in impertinent terrors, but in supernumerary duties of 
life ; and arises from that fear and ignorance which are nat- 
ural to the soul of man. The horror with which we entertain 
the thoughts of death (or indeed of any future evil), and the 
uncertainty of its approach, fill a melancholy mind with innu- 
merable apprehensions and suspicions, and consequently dis- 
pose it to the observation of such groundless prodigies and 
predictions. For as it is the chief concern of wise men to re- 
trench the evils of life by the reasonings of philosophy, it is 
the employment of fools to multiply them by the sentiments 
of superstition. 

For my own part, I should be very much troubled were I 
endowed with this divining quality, though it should inform 
me truly of everything that can befall me. I would not antici- 
pate the relish of any happiness, nor feel the weight of any 
misery, before it actually arrives. 

I know but one way of fortifying my soul against these 
gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and that is, by securing 
to myself the friendship and protection of that Being, who 
disposes of events, and governs futurity. He sees, at one view, 
the whole thread of my existence, not only that part of it which 
I have already passed through, but that which runs forward 
into all the depths of eternity. When 1 lay me down to sleep, 
I recommend myself to his care ; when I awake, I give my- 
self up to his direction. Amidst all the evils that threaten me. 



114 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

I will look up to him for help, and question not but he will 
either avert them, or turn them to my advantage. Though I 
know neither the time nor the manner of the death I am to 
die, I am not at all solicitous about it ; because I am sure that 
he knows them both, and that he will not fail to comfort and 
support me under them. C [Addison] \ ''^'^ 

THE PURPOSE OF THE SPECTATOR 

No. lo. Monday, March 12, 1711 , 

Non aliter quam qui adverse vix Jiumi7ie lembum 

Remigiis stibigit, si bracchia forte re^nisit, 

Atque ilium prcEceps prono rapit alveus amni. — Virg. 

It is with much satisfaction that I hear this great city in- 
quiring day by day after these my papers, and receiving my 
morning lectures with a becoming seriousness and attention. 
My publisher tells me that there are already three thousand of 
them distributed every day : so that if I allow twenty readers 
to every paper, which I look upon as a modest computation, 
I may reckon about threescore thousand disciples in London 
and Westminster, who I hope will take care to distinguish 
themselves from the thoughtless herd of their ignorant and 
unattentive brethren. Since I have raised to myself so great 
an audience, I shall spare no pains to make their instruction 
agreeable, and their diversion useful. For which reasons I shall 
endeavour to enliven morality with wit, and to temper wit with 
morality, that my readers may, if possible, both ways find their 
account in the speculation of the day. And to the end that 
their virtue and discretion may not be short, transient, inter- 
mitting starts of thought, I have resolved to refresh their 
memories from day to day, till I have recovered them out of 
that desperate state of vice and folly into which the age is' 
fallen. The mind that lies fallow for a single day sprouts up 
in follies that are only to be killed by a constant and assiduous 
culture. It was said of Socrates that he brought philosophy 



THE SPECTATOR 1 15 

down from heaven, to inhabit among men ; and I shall be armv 
bitious to have it said of me, that I have brought philosophy \ 
out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in I 
clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses. J 

I would therefore in a very particular manner recommend 
these my speculations to all well regulated families, that set 
apart an hour in every morning for tea and bread and butter ; 
and would earnestly advise them for their good to order this 
paper to be punctually served up, and to be looked upon as a 
part of the tea-equipage. 

Sir Francis Bacon observes that a well written book, com- 
pared with its rivals and antagonists, is like Moses's serpent, 
that immediately swallowed up and devoured those of the Egyp- 
tians. I shall not be so vain as to think that where the Specta- 
tor appears, the other public prints will vanish ; but shall leave 
it to my reader's consideration, whether, is it not much better 
to be let into the knowledge of one's self, than to hear what 
passes in Muscovy or Poland ; and to amuse ourselves with 
such writings as tend to the wearing out of ignorance, pas- 
sion, and prejudice, than such as naturally conduce to inflame 
hatreds, and make enmities irreconcilable. 

' In the next place I would recommend this paper to the daily 
perusal of those gentlemen whom I cannot but consider as my 
good brothers and allies, I mean the fraternity of Spectators, 
who live in the world without having anything to do in it ; and 
either by the affluence of their fortunes, or laziness of their 
dispositions, have no other business with the rest of mankind, 
but to look upon them. Under this class of men are compre- 
hended all contemplative tradesmen, titular physicians, fellows 
of the Royal Society, Templars that are not given to be con- 
tentious, and statesmen that are out of business ; in short, 
every one that considers the world as a theater, and desires 
to form a right judgment of those who are the actors on it. 

There is another set of men that I must likewise lay a 
claim to, whom I have lately called the blanks of society, as 
being altogether unfurnished with ideas, till the business and 



Ii6 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

conversation of the day has supphed them. I have often con- 
sidered these poor souls with an eye of great commiseration, 
when I have heard them asking the first man they have met 
with, whether there was any news stirring, and by that means 
gathering together materials for thinking. These needy per- 
sons do not know what to talk of, till about twelve o'clock in 
the morning ; for by that time they are pretty good judges of 
the weather, know which way the wind sits, and whether the 
Dutch mail be come in. As they lie at the mercy of the first 
man they meet, and are grave or impertinent all the day long, 
according to the notions which they have imbibed in the morn- 
ing, I would earnestly entreat them not to stir out of their 
chambers till they have read this paper, and do promise them 
that I will daily instill into them such sound and wholesome 
sentiments, as shall have a good effect on their conversation 
for the ensuing twelve hours. 

But there are none to whom this paper will be more useful 
than to the female world. I have often thought there has not 
been sufficient pains taken in finding out proper employments 
and diversions for the fair ones. Their amusements seem con- 
trived for them, rather as they are women, than as they are 
reasonable creatures ; and are more adapted to the sex than to 
the species. The toilet is their great scene of business, and 
the right adjusting of their hair the principal employment 
of their lives. The sorting of a suit of ribbons is reckoned 
a very good morning's work ; and if they make an excursion 
to a mercer's or a toy-shop, so great a fatigue makes them 
unfit for anything else all the day after. Their more serious 
occupations are sewing and embroidery, and their greatest 
drudgery the preparation of jellies and sweetmeats. This, I 
say, is the state of ordinary women ; though I know there are 
multitudes of those of a more elevated life and conversation, 
that move in an exalted sphere of knowledge and virtue, that 
join all the beauties of the mind to the ornaments of dress, 
and inspire a kind of awe and respect, as well as love, into 
their male beholders. I hope to increase the number of these 



THE SPECTATOR W] 

by publishing this daily paper, which I shall always endeavour to 
make an innocent if not an improving entertainment, and by 
that means, at least, divert the minds of my female readers 
from greater trifles. At the same time, as I would fain give 
some finishing touches to those which are already the most 
beautiful pieces in human nature, I shall endeavour to point 
out all those imperfections that are the blemishes, as well as 
those virtues which are the embellishments, of the sex. In the 
meanwhile, I hope these my gentle readers, who have so 
much time on their hands, will not grudge throwing away a 
quarter of an hour in a day on this paper, since they may do it 
without any hinderance to business. 

I know several of my friends and well-wishers are in great 
pain for me, lest I should not be able to keep up the spirit 
of a paper which I oblige myself to furnish every day ; but to 
make them easy in this particular, I will promise them faith- 
fully to give it over as soon as I grow dull. This I know will 
be matter of great raillery to the small wits, who will frequently 
put me in mind of my promise, desire me to keep my word, 
assure me that it is high time to give over, with many other 
little pleasantries of the like nature, which men of a little smart 
genius cannot forbear throwing out against their best friends, 
when they have such a handle given them of being witty. But 
let them remember that I do hereby enter my caveat against 
this piece of raillery. C [Addison] \ 3 ^ 

ILL-NATURE IN SATIRE 
No. 23. Tuesday, March 27, 1 71 1 

Scevit atrox Volscens, nee teli eonspieit usquam 
Auetorem, nee quo se ardens immittere possit. — Virg. 

There is nothing that more betrays a base ungenerous spirit 
than the giving of secret stabs to a man's reputation ; lam- 
poons and satires, that are written with wit and spirit, are like 
poisoned darts, which not only inflict a wound but make it 



Il8 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

incurable. For this reason I am very much troubled when I see 
the talents of humour and ridicule in the possession of an ill- 
natured man. There cannot be a greater gratification to a bar- 
barous and inhuman wit, than to stir up sorrow in the heart of 
a private person, to raise uneasiness among near relations, and 
to expose whole families to derision, at the same time that he 
remains unseen and undiscovered. If, beside the accomplish- 
ments of being witty and ill-natured, a man is vicious into the 
bargain, he is one of the most mischievous creatures that can 
enter into a civil society. His satire will then chiefly fall upon 
those who ought to be the most exempt from it. Virtue, merit, 
and everything that is praiseworthy, will be made the subject 
of ridicule and buffoonery. It is impossible to enumerate the 
evils which arise from these arrows that fly in the dark ; and 
I know no other excuse that is or can be made for them, than 
that the wounds they give are only imaginary, and produce 
nothing more than a secret shame or sorrow in the mind of 
the suffering person. It must indeed be confessed, that a lam- 
poon or satire do not carry in them robbery or murder ; but at 
the same time how many are there that would not rather lose 
a considerable sum of money, or even life itself, than be set 
up as a mark of infamy and derision ? And in this case a man 
should consider that an injury is not to be measured by the 
notions of him that gives, but of him that receives it. 

Those who can put the best countenance upon the outrages 
of this nature which are offered them, are not without their 
secret anguish. I have often observed a passage in Socrates's 
behaviour at his death, in a light wherein none of the critics 
have considered it. That excellent man, entertaining his friends, 
a little before he drank the bowl of poison, with a discourse on 
the immortality of the soul, at his entering upon it says that 
he does not believe any, the most comic genius, can censure 
him for talking upon such a subject at such a time. This 
passage, I think, evidently glances upon Aristophanes, who 
wrote a comedy on purpose to ridicule the discourses of that 
divine philosopher. It has been observed by many writers, that 



THE SPECTATOR 1 19 . 

Socrates was so little moved at this piece of buffoonery, that 
he was several times present at its being acted upon the stage, 
and never expressed the least resentment of it. But with sub- 
mission, I think the remark I have here made shows us, that 
this unworthy treatment made an impression upon his mind, 
though he had been too wise to discover it. 

When Julius Caesar was lampooned by Catullus, he invited 
him to a supper, and treated him with such a generous civil- 
ity, that he made the poet his friend ever after. Cardinal 
Mazarine gave the same kind of treatment to the learned 
Quillet, who had reflected upon his eminence in a famous 
Latin poem. The cardinal sent for him, and, after some kind 
expostulations upon what he had written, assured him of his 
esteem, and dismissed him with a promise of the next good 
abbey that should fall, which he accordingly conferred upon 
him in a few months after. This had so good an effect upon 
the author, that he dedicated the second edition of his book to 
the cardinal, after having expunged the passages which had 
given him offense. 

Sextus Ouintus was not of so generous and forgiving a 
temper. Upon his being made pope, the statue of Pasquin 
was one night dressed in a very dirty shirt, with an excuse 
written under it, that he was forced to wear foul linen, be- 
cause his laundress was made a princess. This was a reflec- 
tion upon the pope's sister, who before the promotion of her 
brother, was in those mean circumstances that Pasquin repre- 
sented her. As this pasquinade made a great noise in Rome, 
the pope offered a considerable sum of money to any person 
that should discover the author of it. The author, relying 
upon his holiness's generosity, as also on some private over- 
tures which he had received from him, made the discovery 
himself; upon which the pope gave him the reward he had 
promised, but at the same time to disable the satirist for the 
future, ordered his tongue to be cut out, and both his hands 
to be chopped off. Aretine is too trite an instance. Every one 
knows that all the kings in Europe were his tributaries. Nay, 



I20 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

there is a letter of his extant, in which he makes his boasts 
that he laid the Sophi of Persia under contribution. 

Though, in the various examples which I have here drawn 
together, these several great men behaved themselves very 
differently toward the wits of the age who had reproached 
them ; they all of them plainly showed that they were very 
sensible of their reproaches, and consequently that they re- 
ceived them as very great injuries. For my own part, I 
would never trust a man that I thought was capable of giving 
these secret wounds, and cannot but think that he would hurt 
the person whose reputation he thus assaults, in his body or 
in his fortune, could he do it with the same security. There 
is, indeed, something very barbarous and inhuman in the 
ordinary scribblers of lampoons. An innocent young lady 
shall be exposed for an unhappy feature ; a father of a family 
turned to ridicule for some domestic calamity ; a wife be made 
uneasy all her life for a misinterpreted word or action ; nay, 
a good, a temperate, and a just man shall be put out of coun- 
tenance by the representation of those qualities that should 
do him honour. So pernicious a thing is wit, when it is not 
tempered with virtue and humanity. 

I have indeed heard of heedless, inconsiderate writers, that 
without any malice have sacrificed the reputation of their 
friends and acquaintance to a certain levity of temper, and 
a silly ambition of distinguishing themselves by a spirit of 
raillery and satire : as if it were not infinitely more honourable 
to be a good-natured man than a wit. Where there is this 
little petulant humour in an author, he is often very mischievous 
without designing to be so. For which reason, I always lay it 
down as a rule, that an indiscreet man is more hurtful than 
an ill-natured one ; for, as the latter will only attack his 
enemies, and those he wishes ill to, the other injures indiffer- 
ently both friends and foes. I cannot forbear on this occasion 
transcribing a fable out of Sir Roger 1' Estrange, which acci- 
dentally lies before me. "A company of waggish boys were 
watching of frogs at the side of a pond, and still as any of 'em 



THE SPECTATOR I2i 

put up their heads, they 'd be pelting them down again with 
stones. ' Children,' says one of the frogs, ' you never consider, 
that though this may be play to you, 'tis death to us.' " 

As this week is in a manner set apart and dedicated to 
serious thoughts, I shall indulge myself in such speculations 
as may not be altogether unsuitable to the season ; and in the 
meantime, as the settling in ourselves a charitable frame of 
mind is a work very proper for the time, I have in this paper 
endeavoured to expose that particular breach of charity which 
has been generally overlooked by divines, because they are but 
few who can be guilty of it. C [Addison] 'U ^ 



MEDITATIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

No. 26. Friday, March 30, 1711 

Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabeimas 

Regumque fiirres. O heate Sesti, 
Vitae smmna brevis spent nos vetat incohaj'e longam. 

Jam te premet 7iox, fabiilaeque manes ^ 
Et domus exilis Pliitonia . — HoR. 

When I am in a serious humour, I very often walk by 
myself in Westminster Abbey : where the gloominess of the 
place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity 
of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, 
are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather 
thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed 
a whole afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and the 
church, amusing myself with the tombstones and inscriptions 
that I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most 
of them recorded nothing else of the buried person, but that 
he was born upon one day, and died upon another ; the whole 
history of his life being comprehended in those two circum- 
stances that are common to all mankind. I could not but look 
upon these registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, 
as a kind of satire upon the departed persons ; who had left 



122 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

no other memorial of them, but that they were born, and that 
they died. They put me in mind of several persons men- 
tioned in the battles of heroic poems, who have sounding 
names given them for no other reason but that they may be 
killed, and are celebrated for nothing but being knocked on 
the head. 

TXavKov re MeSovra re @epai\o)(^6v re. — HOM. 
Glaucumque, Medontaque, Thersilochumque. — ViRG. 

The life of these men is finely described in holy writ 
by ''the path of an arrow," which is immediately closed up 
and lost. 

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with 
the digging of a grave ; and saw in every shovel-full of it that 
was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixed 
with a kind of fresh mouldering earth that some time or other 
had a place in the composition of a human body. Upon this 
I began to consider with myself what innumerable multitudes 
of people lay confused together under the pavement of that 
ancient cathedral ; how men and women, friends and enemies, 
priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled 
among one another, and blended together in the same com- 
mon mass ; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, 
weakness, and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same 
promiscuous heap of matter. 

After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality, 
as it were, in the lump, I examined it more particularly by 
the accounts which I found on several of the monuments 
which are raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some 
of them were covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that if 
it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with 
them, he would blush at the praises which his friends have 
bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest 
that they deliver the character of the person departed in 
Greek or Hebrew, and by that means are not understood once 
in a twelvemonth. In the poetical quarter, I found there were 



THE SPECTATOR 123 

poets who had no monuments, and monuments which had no 
poets. I observed, indeed, that the present war has filled the 
church with many of these uninhabited monuments, which 
had been erected to the memory of persons whose bodies were 
perhaps buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bosom 
of the ocean. 

I could not but be very much delighted with several modern 
epitaphs, which are written with great elegance of expression 
and justness of thought, and therefore do honour to the living 
as well as to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt to conceive 
an idea of the ignorance or politeness of a nation from the 
turn of their public monuments and inscriptions, they should 
be submitted to the perusal of men of learning and genius 
before they are put in execution. Sir Cloudesly Shovel's 
monument has very often given me great offense. Instead of 
the brave, rough English admiral, which was the distinguish- 
ing character of that plain, gallant man, he is represented on 
his tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, 
and reposing himself upon velvet cushions, under a canopy of 
state. The inscription is answerable to the monument; for 
instead of celebrating the many remarkable actions he had 
performed in the service of his country, it acquaints us only 
with the manner of his death, in which it was impossible for 
him to reap any honour. The Dutch, whom we are apt to 
despise for want of genius, show an infinitely greater taste of 
antiquity and politeness in their buildings and works of this 
nature than what we meet with in those of our own country. 
The monuments of their admirals, which have been erected 
at the public expense, represent them like themselves, and 
are adorned with rostral crowns and naval ornaments, with 
beautiful festoons of sea- weed, shells, and coral. 

But to return to our subject. I have left the repository of 
our English kings for the contemplation of another day, when 
I shall find my mind disposed for so serious an amusement. 
I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise 
dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy 



124 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

imaginations ; but for my own part, though I am always 
serious, I do not know what it is to be melancholy ; and can 
therefore take a view of nature in her deep and solemn 
scenes with the same pleasure as in her most gay and de- 
lightful ones. By this means I can improve myself with those 
objects which others consider with terror. When I look upon 
the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies within 
me ; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordi- 
nate desire goes out ; when I meet with the grief of parents 
upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion ; when 
I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the 
vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. 
When I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when 
I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men 
that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I 
reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competi- 
tions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the 
several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and 
some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when 
we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appear- 
ance together. C [Addison] i ^ >^ 



COFFEE-HOUSE COMPANY 

No. 49. Thursday, April 26, 1 7 1 1 
— Hominem pagina ?iostra sapit. — Mart. 



It is very natural for a man who is not turned for mirthful 
meetings of men, or assemblies of the fair sex, to delight in 
that sort of conversation which we find in coffee-houses. Here 
a man of my temper is in his element ; for if he cannot talk, 
he can still be more agreeable to his company, as well as 
pleased in himself, in being only a hearer. It is a secret 
known but to few, yet of no small use in the conduct of life, 
that when you fall into a man's conversation, the first thing 



THE SPECTATOR 125 

you should consider is, whether he has a greater incHnation to 
hear you, or that you should hear him. The latter is the more 
general desire, and I know very able flatterers that never 
speak a word in praise of the persons from whom they obtain 
daily favours, but still practice a skillful attention to whatever 
is uttered by those with whom they converse. We are very 
curious to observe the behaviour of great men and their 
clients ; but the same passions and interests move men in 
lower spheres ; and I (that have nothing else to do but make 
observations) see in every parish, street, lane, and alley of 
this populous city, a little potentate that has his court and his 
flatterers, who lay snares for his affection and favour by the 
same arts that are practiced upon men in higher stations. 

In the place I most usually frequent, men differ rather in 
the time of day in which they make a figure, than in any real 
greatness above one another. I, who am at the coffee-house 
at six in a morning, know that my friend Beaver, the haber- 
dasher, has a levee of more undissembled friends and admirers 
than most of the courtiers or generals of Great Britain. Every 
man about him has, perhaps, a newspaper in his hand ; but 
none can pretend to guess what step will be taken in any one 
court of Europe, till Mr. Beaver has thrown down his pipe, 
and declares what measures the allies must enter into upon 
this new posture of affairs. Our coffee-house is near one of 
the inns of court, and Beaver has the audience and admira- 
tion of his neighbours from six till within a quarter of eight, 
at which time he is interrupted by the students of the house ; 
some of whom are ready dressed for Westminster at eight in 
a morning, with faces as busy as if they were retained in every 
cause there ; and others come in their nightgowns to saunter 
away their time, as if they never designed to go thither. I do 
not know that I meet, in any of my walks, objects which move 
both my spleen and laughter so effectually as those young fel- 
lows at the Grecian, Squire's, Searle's, and all other coffee- 
houses adjacent to the law, who rise early for no other purpose 
but to publish their laziness. One would think these young 



126 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

virtuosos take a gay cap and slippers, with a scarf and parti- 
coloured gown, to be ensigns of dignity ; for the vain things 
approach each other with an air, which shows they regard one 
another for their vestments. I have observed that the superi- 
ority among these proceeds from an opinion of gallantry and 
fashion. The gentleman in the strawberry sash, who presides 
so much over the rest, has, it seems, subscribed to every opera 
this last winter, and is supposed to receive favours from one of 
the actresses. 

When the day grows too busy for these gentlemen to enjoy 
any longer the pleasures of their dishabille with any manner of 
confidence, they give place to men who have business or good 
sense in their faces, and come to the coffee-house either to 
transact affairs, or enjoy conversation. The persons to whose 
behaviour and discourse I have most regard, are such as are 
between these two sorts of men ; such as have not spirits too 
active to be happy and well pleased in a private condition, nor 
complexions too warm to make them neglect the duties and 
relations of life. Of these sort of men consist the worthier 
part of mankind ; of these are all good fathers, generous 
brothers, sincere friends, and faithful subjects. Their enter- 
tainments are derived rather from reason than imagination : 
which is the cause that there is no impatience or instability in 
their speech or action. You see in their countenances they 
are at home, and in quiet possession of the present instant 
as it passes, without desiring to quicken it by gratifying any 
passion, or prosecuting any new design. These are the men 
formed for society, and those little communities which we 
express by the word neighbourhoods. 

The coffee-house is the place of rendezvous to all that live 
near it, who are thus turned to relish calm and ordinary life. 
Eubulus presides over the middle hours of the day, when this 
assembly of men meet together. He enjoys a great fortune 
handsomely, without launching into expense ; and exerts many 
noble and useful qualities, without appearing in any public 
employment. His wisdom and knowledge are serviceable to 



THE SPECTATOR 



127 



all that think fit to make use of them ; and he does the office 
of a counsel, a judge, an executor, and a friend, to all his 
acquaintance, not only without the profits which attend such 
offices, but also without the deference and homage which are 
usually paid to them. The giving of thanks is displeasing to 
him. The greatest gratitude you can show him is to let him 
see that you are the better man for his services ; and that you 
are as ready to oblige others, as he is to oblige you. 

In the private exigencies of his friends, he lends at legal 
value considerable sums which he might highly increase by 
rolling in the public stocks. He does not consider in whose 
hands his money will improve most, but where it will do 
most good. 

' Eubulus has so great an authority in his little diurnal audi- 
ence, that when he shakes his head at any piece of public 
news, they all of them appear dejected ; and on the contrary, 
go home to their dinners with a good stomach and cheerful 
aspect when Eubulus seems to intimate that things go well. 
Nay, their veneration toward him is so great, that when they 
are in other company they speak and act after him ; are wise 
in his sentences and are no sooner sat down at their own 
tables, but they hope or fear, rejoice or despond, as they saw 
him do at the coffee-house. In a word, every man is Eubulus 
as soon as his back is turned. 

Having here given an account of the several reigns that 
succeed each other from day-break till dinner-time, I shall 
mention the monarchs of the afternoon on another occasion, 
and shut up the whole series of them with the history of Tom 
the Tyrant ; who, as the first minister of the coffee-house, 
takes the government upon him between the hours of eleven 
and twelve at night, and gives his orders in the most arbitrary 
manner to the servants below him, as to the disposition of 
liquors, coal, and cinders. R [Steele] ; ^ t) 



128 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

THE JOURNAL OF THE INDIAN KINGS 

No. 50. Friday, April 27, 1711 
Nunqiiam aliud natura, aliud sapientia dicit. — Juv. 

When the four Indian kings were in this country about a 
twelvemonth ago, I often mixed with the rabble, and followed 
them a whole day together, being wonderfully struck with the 
sight of everything that is new or uncommon. I have since 
their departure employed a friend to make many inquiries of 
their landlord the upholsterer, relating to their manners and 
conversation, as also concerning the remarks which they made 
in this country ; for next to the forming a right notion of 
such strangers, I should be desirous of learning what ideas 
they have conceived of us. 

The upholsterer finding my friend very inquisitive about 
these his lodgers, brought him some time since a little bundle 
of papers, which he assured him were written by King Sa Ga 
Yean Qua Rash Tow, and, as he supposes, left behind by 
some mistake. These papers are now translated, and contain 
abundance of very odd observations, which I find this little 
fraternity of kings made during their stay in the isle of Great 
Britain. I shall present my reader with a short specimen of 
them in this paper, and may perhaps communicate more to 
him hereafter. In the article of London are the following words, 
which without doubt are meant of the church of St. Paul : 

On the most rising part of the town there stands a huge house, big 
enough to contain the whole nation of which I am king. Our good brother 
E Tow O Koam, King of the Rivers, is of opinion it was made by the hands 
of that great God to whom it is consecrated. The kings of Granajah and 
of the Six Nations believe that it was created with the earth, and produced 
on the same day with the sun and moon. But for my own part, by the 
best information that I could get of this matter. I am apt to think that this 
prodigious pile was fashioned into the shape it now bears by several tools 
and instruments of which they have a wonderful variety in this country. It 
was probably at first a huge misshapen rock that grew upon the top of the 
hill, which the natives of the country (after having cut it into a kind of 



THE SPECTATOR 129 

regular figure) bored and hollowed with incredible pains and industry, till 
they had wrought in it all those beautiful vaults and caverns into which 
it is divided at this day. As soon as this rock was thus curiously scooped 
to their liking, a prodigious number of hands must have been employed 
in chipping the outside of it, which is now as smooth as the surface of a 
pebble ; and is in several places hewn out into pillars that stand like the 
trunks of so many trees bound about the top with garlands of leaves. It 
is probable that when this great work was begun, which must have been 
many hundred years ago, there was some religion among this people ; for 
they give it the name of a temple, and have a tradition that it was designed 
for men to pay their devotions in. And indeed there are several reasons 
which make us think that the natives of this country had formerly among 
them some sort of worship, for they set apart every seventh day as sacred ; 
but upon my going into one of these holy houses on that day, I could not 
observe any circumstance of devotion in their behaviour. There was in- 
deed a man in black, who was mounted above the rest, and seemed to 
utter something with a great deal of vehemence ; but as for those under- 
neath him, instead of paying their worship to the deity of the place, 
they were most of them bowing and curtseying to one another, and a 
considerable number of them fast asleep. 

The queen of the country appointed two men to attend us, that had 
enough of our language to make themselves understood in some few par- 
ticulars. But we soon perceived that these two were great enemies to one 
another, and did not always agree in the same story. We could make shift 
to gather out of one of them,, that this island was very much infested with 
a monstrous kind of animals, in the shape of men, called whigs ; and he 
often told us that he hoped we should meet with none of them in our way, 
for that if we did, they would be apt to knock us down for being kings. 

Our other interpreter used to talk very much of a kind of animal called 
a tory, that was as great a monster as the whig, and would treat us as ill 
for being foreigners. These two creatures, it seems, are born with a secret 
antipathy to one another, and engage when they meet as naturally as the 
elephant and the rhinoceros. But as we saw none of either of these species, 
we are apt to think that our guides deceived us with misrepresentations and 
fictions, and amused us with an account of such monsters as are not really 
in their country. 

These particulars we made a shift to pick out from the discourse of our 
interpreters, which we put together as well as we could, being able to 
understand but here and there a word of what they said, and afterward 
making up the meaning of it among ourselves. The men of the country 
are very cunning and ingenious in handicraft works, but withal so very 
idle, that we often saw young, lusty, raw-boned fellows carried up and 
down the streets in little covered rooms, by a couple of porters who are. 



I30 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

hired for that service. Their dress is Hkewise very barbarous, for they 
almost strangle themselves about the neck, and bind their bodies with 
many ligatures, that we are apt to think are the occasion of several distem- 
pers among them which our country is entirely free from. Instead of those 
beautiful feathers with which we adorn our heads, they often buy up a 
monstrous bush of hair, which covers their heads and falls down in a large 
fleece below the middle of their backs, with which they walk up and down 
the streets, and are as proud of it as if it was of their own growth. 

We were invited to one of their public diversions, where we hoped to 
have seen the great men of their country running down a stag, or pitching 
a bar, that we might have discovered who were the persons of the greatest 
abilities among them ; but instead of that, they conveyed us into a huge 
room lighted up with abundance of candles, where this lazy people sat still 
above three hours to see several feats of ingenuity performed by others, 
who it seems were paid for it. 

As for the women of the country, not being able to talk with them, we 
could only make our remarks upon them at a distance. They let the hair 
of their heads grow to a great length ; but as the men make a great show 
with heads of hair that are none of their own, the women, who they say 
have very fine heads of hair, tie it up in a knot, and cover it from being 
seen. The women look like angels, and would be more beautiful than the 
sun, were it not for little black spots that are apt to break out in their 
faces, and sometimes rise in very odd figures. I have observed that those 
little blemishes wear off very soon ; but when they disappear in one part 
of the face, they are very apt to break out in another, insomuch that I 
have seen a spot upon the forehead in the afternoon, which was upon 
the chin in the morning. 

The author then proceeds to show the absurdity of breeches 
and petticoats, with many other curious observations which I 
shall reserve for another occasion. I cannot, however, con- 
clude this paper without taking notice that amidst these wild 
remarks there now and then appears something very reason- 
able. I cannot likewise forbear observing that we are all 
guilty in some measure of the same narrow way of thinking 
which we meet with in this abstract of the Indian journal, 
when we fancy the customs, dresses, and manners of other 
countries are ridiculous and extravagant, if they do not resem- 
ble those of our own. C [Addison] , . 



THE SPECTATOR 131 

THE EDUCATION OF GIRLS 

No. 66. Wednesday, May 16, 171 1 

Motus doceri gaudet lonicos 
Matiira virgo^ et Jingitur artibus 
Jam nunc et incestos amores 

De teiiero viediatur iingui. — Hor. 

The two following letters are upon a subject of very great 
importance, though expressed without any air of gravity. 

To THE Spectator 
Sir, 

I take the freedom of asking your advice in behalf of a young country 
kinswoman of mine who is lately come to town, and under my care for 
her education. She is very pretty, but you can't imagine how unformed 
a creature it is. She comes to my hands just as nature left her, half fin- 
ished, and without any acquired improvements. When I look on her I 
often think of the Belle Sauvage mentioned in one of your papers. Dear 
Mr. Spectator, help me to make her comprehend the visible graces of 
speech, and the dumb eloquence of motion ; for she is at present a perfect 
stranger to both. She knows no way to express herself but by her tongue, 
and that always to signify her meaning. Her eyes serve her yet only to 
see with, and she is utterly a foreigner to the language of looks and glances. 
In this I fancy you could help her better than anybody. I have bestowed 
two months in teaching her to sigh when she is not concerned, and to 
smile when she is not pleased, and am ashamed to own she makes little or 
no improvement. Then she is no more able now to walk, than she was to 
go at a year old. By walking, you will easily know I mean that regular 
but easy motion which gives our persons so irresistible a grace, as if we 
moved to music, and is a kind of disengaged figure, or, if I may so speak, 
recitative dancing. But the want of this I cannot blame in her, for I find 
she has no ear, and means nothing by walking but to change her place. 
I could pardon too her blushing, if she knew how to carry herself in it, 
and if it did not manifestly injure her complexion. 

They tell me you are a person who have seen the world, and are a 
judge of fine breeding ; which makes me ambitious of some instructions 
from you for her improvement : which when you have favored me with, I 
shall farther advise with you about the disposal of this fair forester in 
marriage : for I will make it no secret to you, that her person and educa- 
tion are to be her fortune. j ^^^ gj^. 

Your very humble servant, 

Celimene. 



132 



THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 



Sir, 

Being employed by Celimene to make up and send to you her letter, I 
make bold to recommend the case therein mentioned to your consideration, 
because she and I happen to differ a little in our notions. I, who am a 
rough man, am afraid the young girl is in a fair way to be spoiled ; there- 
fore, pray, Mr. Spectator, let us have your opinion of this fine thing called 
fine breeding; for I am afraid it differs too much from that plain thing 
called good breeding. 

Your most humble servant. 

The general mistake among us in the educating our chil- 
dren is, that in our daughters we take care of their persons 
and neglect their minds ; in our sons we are so intent upon 
adorning their minds, that we wholly neglect their bodies. It 
is from this that you shall see a young lady celebrated and 
admired in all the assemblies about town, when her elder 
brother is afraid to come into a room. From this ill manage- 
ment it arises, that we frequently observe a man's life is half 
spent, before he is taken notice of, and a woman in the prime 
of her .years is out of fashion and neglected. The boy I shall 
consider upon some other occasion, and at present stick to 
the girl : and I am the more inclined to this, because I have 
several letters which complain to me that my female readers 
have not understood me for some days last past, and take 
themselves to be unconcerned in the present turn of my writ- 
ings. When a girl is safely brought from her nurse, before 
she is capable of forming one simple notion of anything in 
life, she is delivered to the hands of her dancing-master ; and 
with a collar round her neck, the pretty, wild thing is taught 
a fantastical gravity of behaviour, and forced to a particular 
way of holding her head, heaving her breast, and moving with 
her whole body ; and all this under pain of never having a 
husband, if she steps, looks, or moves awry. This gives the 
young lady wonderful workings of imagination, what is to pass 
between her and this husband, that she is every moment told 
of, and for whom she seems to be educated. Thus her fancy 
is engaged to turn all her endeavours to the ornament of her 
person, as what must determine her good and ill in this life : 



THE SPECTATOR 133 

and she naturally thinks, if she is tall enough, she is wise 
enough for anything for which her education makes her think 
she is designed. To make her an agreeable person is the 
main purpose of her parents ; to that is all their cost, to that 
all their care directed ; and from this general folly of parents 
we owe our present numerous race of coquettes. These reflec- 
tions puzzle me, when I think of giving my advice on the 
subject of managing the wild thing mentioned in the letter of 
my correspondent. But sure there is a middle w^ay to be fol- 
lowed ; the management of a young lady's person is not to be 
overlooked, but the erudition of her mind is much more to 
be regarded. According as this is managed, you will see the 
mind follow the appetites of the body, or the body express 
the virtues of the mind. 

Cleomira dances with all the elegance of motion imaginable ; 
but her eyes are so chastised with the simplicity and innocence 
of her thoughts, that she raises in her beholders admiration and 
good-will, but no loose hope or wild imagination. The true art 
in this case is, to make the mind and body improve together ; 
and, if possible, to make gesture follow thought, and not let 
thought be employed upon gesture. R [Steele] / 



SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AT HOME 

No. 106. Monday, Jul}^ 2, 1711 
Hmc tibi copia 



Manabit ad piefium benigno 

Ruris honoriim opidenta cortiu. — Hor. 

Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger 
de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the country, I 
last week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him 
for some time at his country-house, where I intend to form 
several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very 
well acquainted with my humour, lets me rise and go to bed 



134 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

when I please, dine at his own table or in my chamber as I 
think fit, sit still and say nothing without bidding me be merry. 
When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only 
shows me at a distance. As I have been walking in his fields 
I have observed them stealing a sight of me over a hedge, and 
have heard the knight desiring them not to let me see them, 
for that I hated to be stared at. 

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it con- 
sists of sober and staid persons ; for as the knight is the best 
master in the world, he seldom changes his servants ; and as he 
is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leaving 
him ; by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown 
old with their master. You would take his valet-de-chambre for 
his brother, his butler is gray-headed, his groom is one of the 
gravest men that I have ever seen, and his coachman has the 
looks of a privy-councillor. Y^ou see the goodness of the master 
even in the old house-dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in 
the stable with great care and tenderness, out of regard to his 
past services, though he has been useless for several years. 

I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the joy 
that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics 
upon my friend's arrival at his country seat. Some of them 
could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master ; 
every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, 
and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the 
same time the good old knight, with a mixture of the father 
and the master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his 
own affairs with several kind questions relating to themselves. 
This humanity and good-nature engages everybody to him, so 
that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are 
in good humour, and none so much as the person whom he 
diverts himself with ; on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays 
any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe 
a secret concern in the looks of all his servants. 

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of 
his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest 



THE SPECTATOR I35 

of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, 
because they have often heard their master talk of me as of 
his particular friend. 

My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself 
in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable man who is ever 
with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature of 
a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of 
good sense and some learning, of a very regular life and oblig- 
ing conversation ; he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that 
he is very much in the old knight's esteem, so that he lives 
in the family rather as a relation than a dependent. 

I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir 
Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of a humor- 
ist ; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are as it were 
tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them particu- 
larly his, and distinguishes them from those of other men. 
This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so 
it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more delight- 
ful than the same degree of sense and virtue would appear in 
their common and ordinary colours. As I was walking with him 
last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I 
have just now mentioned, and without staying for my answer, 
told me that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and 
Greek at his own table ; for which reason he desired a particu- 
lar friend of his at the university to find him out a clergyman 
rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good aspect, a 
clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that un- 
derstood a little of backgammon. "My friend," says Sir Roger, 
"found me out this gentleman, who, beside the endowments 
required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he 
does not show it. I have given him the patronage of the par- 
ish ; and because I know his value, have settled upon him a 
good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he 
was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He 
has now been with me thirty years ; and though he does not 
know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked 



136 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

anything of me for himself, though he is every day soHciting 
me for something in behalf of one or other of my tenants his 
parishioners. There has not been a lawsuit in the parish since 
he has lived among them ; if any dispute arises, they apply 
themselves to him for the decision : if they do not acquiesce 
in his judgment, which I think never happened above once, 
or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with 
me, I made him a present of all the good sermons which have 
been printed in English, and only begged of him that every 
Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accord- 
ingly, he has digested them into such a series, that they follow 
one another naturally, and make a continued system of practical 
divinity." 

As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we 
were talking of came up to us ; and upon the knight's asking 
him who preached to-morrow (for it w^as Saturday night), told 
us the bishop of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in 
the afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for 
the whole year, where I saw with a great deal of pleasure Arch- 
bishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, 
with several living authors who have published discourses of 
practical divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the 
pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend's insisting upon 
the qualifications of a good aspect and a clear voice ; for I was 
so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as 
well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never 
passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated 
after this manner is like the composition of a poet in the mouth 
of a graceful actor. 

I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy would 
follow this example ; and instead of wasting their spirits in 
laborious compositions of their own, would endeavour after a 
handsome elocution, and all those other talents that are proper 
to enforce what has been penned by great masters. This would 
not only be more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the 
people. L [Addison] ^^,jV> 



THE SFECTATOK 137 

THE CHARACTER OF WILL WIMBLE 

No. 108. Wednesday, July 4, 1711 
G?'atis a?ihelans, multa agefido nihil agens. — Ph^ed. 

As I was yesterday morning walking with Sir Roger before 
his house, a country fellow brought him a huge fish, which, he 
told him, Mr. William Wimble had caught that very morning ; 
and that he presented it with his service to him, and intended 
to come and dine with him. At the same time he delivered 
a letter, which my friend read to me as soon as the messenger 
left him. 

Sir Roger, 

I desire you to accept of a jack, which is the best I have caught this 
season. I intend to come and stay with you a week, and see how the perch 
bite in the Black River. I observed with some concern, the last time I saw 
you upon the bowling-green, that your whip wanted a lash to it ; I will 
bring half a dozen with me that I twisted last week, which I hope will serve 
you all the time you are in the country. I have not been out of the saddle 
for six days last past, having been at Eton with Sir John's eldest son. He 
takes to his learning hugely. 

I am, Sir, your humble servant. 

Will Wimble. 

This extraordinary letter, and message that accompanied it, 
made me very curious to know the character and quality of the 
gentleman who sent them ; which I found to be as follows : — 
Will Wimble is younger brother to a baronet, and descended 
of the ancient family of the Wimbles. He is now between 
forty and fifty ; but being bred to no business and born to no 
estate, he generally lives with his elder brother as superintend- 
ent of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs better than any 
man in the country, and is very famous for finding out a hare. 
He is extremely well versed in all the little handicrafts of an 
idle man. He makes a May-fly to a miracle : and furnishes the 
whole country with angle-rods. As he is a good-natured, offi- 
cious fellow, and very much esteemed upon account of his 
family, he is a welcome guest at every house, and keeps up a 



138 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

good correspondence among all the gentlemen about him. He 
carries a tulip root in his pocket from one to another, or ex- 
changes a puppy between a couple of friends that live perhaps 
in the opposite sides of the county. Will is a particular favourite 
of all the young heirs, whom he frequently obliges with a net 
that he has weaved, or a setting-dog that he has made himself. 
He now and then presents a pair of garters of his own knit- 
ting to their mothers and sisters ; and raises a great deal of 
mirth among them, by inquiring as often as he meets them 
" how they wear ? " These gentleman-like manufactures and 
obliging little humours make Will the darling of the country. 

Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of him, when he 
saw him make up to us with two or three hazel twigs in his 
hand that he had cut in Sir Roger's woods, as he came through 
them in his way to the house. I was very much pleased to ob- 
serve on one side the hearty and sincere welcome with which 
Sir Roger received him, and on the other, the secret joy which 
his guest discovered at the sight of the good old knight. After 
the first salutes were over. Will desired Sir Roger to lend him 
one of his servants to carry a set of shuttlecocks he had with 
him in a little box, to a lady that lived about a mile off, to 
whom it seems he had promised such a present for above this 
half-year. Sir Roger's back was no sooner turned, but honest 
Will began to tell me of a large cock pheasant that he had 
sprung in one of the neighbouring woods, with two or three 
other adventures of the same nature. Odd and uncommon char- 
acters are the game that I look for and most delight in ; for 
which reason I was as much pleased with the novelty of the 
person that talked to me, as he could be for his life with the 
springing of a pheasant, and therefore listened to him with 
more than ordinary attention. 

In the midst of his discourse the bell rang to dinner, where 
the gentleman I have been speaking of had the pleasure of 
seeing the huge jack he had caught served up for the first dish 
in a most sumptuous manner. Upon our sitting down to it he 
gave us a long account how he had hooked it, played with it, 



THE SPECTATOR 139 

foiled it, and at length drew it out upon the bank — with sev- 
eral other particulars that lasted all the first course. A dish of 
wild fowl that came afterward furnished conversation for the 
rest of the dinner, which concluded with a late invention of 
Will's for improving the quail-pipe. 

Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I was secretly 
touched with compassion towards the honest gentleman that had 
dined with us ; and could not but consider with a great deal of 
concern, how so good a heart and such busy hands were wholly 
employed in trifles ; that so much humanity should be so little 
beneficial to others, and so much industry so little advantageous 
to himself. The same temper of mind and application to affairs 
might have recommended him to the public esteem, and have 
raised his fortune in another station of life. What good to his 
country or himself might not a trader or merchant have done 
with such useful though ordinary qualifications 1 

Will Wimble's is the case of many a younger brother of a 
great family, who had rather see their children starve like gen- 
tlemen, than thrive in a trade or profession that is beneath 
their quality. This humour fills several parts of Europe with 
pride and beggary. It is the happiness of a trading nation like 
ours, that the younger sons, though incapable of any liberal art 
or profession, may be placed in such a way of life as may per- 
haps enable them to vie with the best of their family. Accord- 
ingly we find several citizens that were launched into the world 
with narrow fortunes, rising by an honest industry to greater 
estates than those of their elder brothers. It is not improbable 
but Will was formerly tried at divinity, law, or physic, and 
that, finding his genius did not lie in that way, his parents 
gave him up at length to his own inventions. But certainly, 
however improper he might have been for studies of a higher 
nature, he was perfectly well turned for the occupations of trade 
and commerce. As I think this is a point which cannot be 
too much inculcated, I shall desire my reader to compare what 
I have here written with what I have said in my twenty-first 
speculation. L [Addison] /x^ 



I40 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

THE STORY OF EUDOXUS AND LEONTINE 

No. 123. Saturday, July 21, 171 1 

Doctrina sed vim pfomovet insitam 
Redique ciiltus pectora roboraiit : 
Utcunque defecere mores, 
Dedecorant bene nata culpce. — Hor. 

As I was yesterday taking the air with my friend Sir Roger, 
we were met by a fresh-coloured, ruddy young man who rode 
by us full speed, with a couple of servants behind him. Upon 
my inquiry who he was, Sir Roger told me that he was a 
young gentleman of a considerable estate, who had been edu- 
cated by a tender mother that lived not many miles from the 
place where we were. She is a very good lady, says my friend, 
but took so much care of her son's health, that she has made 
him good for nothing. She quickly found that reading was 
bad for his eyes, and that writing made his head ache. He 
was let loose among the woods as soon as he was able to ride 
on horseback, or to carry a gun upon his shoulder. To be 
brief, I found, by my friend's account of him, that he had got 
a great stock of health, and nothing else ; and that if it were 
a man's business only to live, there would not be a more 
accomplished young fellow in the whole county. 

The truth of it is, since my residing in these parts, I have 
seen and heard innumerable instances of young heirs and elder 
brothers, who, either from their own reflecting upon the estates 
they are born to, and therefore thinking all other accomplish- 
ments unnecessary, or from hearing these notions frequently 
inculcated to them by the flattery of their servants and domes- 
tics, or from the same foolish thought prevailing in those who 
have the care of their education, are of no manner of use but 
to keep up their families, and transmit their lands and houses 
in a line to posterity. 

This makes me often think on a story I have heard of two 
friends, which I shall give my reader at large, under feigned 



THE SPECTATOR 141 

names. The moral of it may, I hope, be useful, though there 
are some circumstances which make it rather appear like a 
novel, than a tme story. 

Eudoxus and Leontine began the world with small estates. 
They were both of them men of good sense and great virtue. 
They prosecuted their studies together in their earlier years, 
and entered into such a friendship as lasted to the end of 
their lives. Eudoxus, at his first setting out in the world, 
threw himself into a court, where by his natural endowments 
and his acquired abilities, he made his way from one post to 
another, till at length he had raised a very considerable fortune. 
Leontine, on the contrary, sought all opportunities of improv- 
ing his mind by study, conversation, and travel. He was not 
only acquainted with all the sciences, but with the most eminent 
professors of them throughout Europe. He knew perfectly 
well the interests of its princes, with the customs and fashions 
of their courts, and could scarce meet with the name of an 
extraordinary person in the Gazette whom he had not either 
talked to or seen. . In short, he had so well mixed and digested 
his knowledge of men and books, that he made one of the 
most accomplished persons of his age. During the whole course 
of his studies and travels he kept up a punctual correspondence 
with Eudoxus, who often made himself acceptable to the prin- 
cipal men about court, by the intelligence which he received 
from Leontine. When they were both turned of forty (an age 
in which, according to Mr. Cowley, "there is no dallying with 
life"), they determined, pursuant to the resolution they had 
taken in the beginning of their lives, to retire, and pass the 
remainder of their days in the country. In order to this, they 
both of them married much about the same time. Leontine, 
with his own and his wife's fortune, bought a farm of three hun- 
dred a year, which lay within the neighbourhood of his friend 
Eudoxus, who had purchased an estate of as many thousands. 
They were both of them fathers about the same time, Eudoxus 
having a son born to him, and Leontine a daughter ; but to 
the unspeakable grief of the latter, his young wife (in whom 



142 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

all his happiness was wrapt up) died in a few days after the 
birth of her daughter. His affliction would have been insup- 
portable, had not he been comforted by the daily visits and 
conversations of his friend. As they were one day talking 
together with their usual intimacy, Leontine, considering how 
incapable he was of giving his daughter a proper education in 
his own house, and Eudoxus reflecting on the ordinary behaviour 
of a son who knows himself to be the heir of a great estate, 
they both agreed upon an exchange of children, namely, that 
the boy should be bred up with Leontine as his son, and that 
the girl should live with Eudoxus as his daughter, till they 
were each of them arrived at years of discretion. The wife of 
Eudoxus, knowing that her son could not be so advantageously 
brought up as under the care of Leontine, and considering at 
the same time that he would be perpetually under her own 
eye, was by degrees prevailed upon to fall in with the project. 
She therefore took Leonilla, for that was the name of the girl, 
and educated her as her own daughter. The two friends on 
each side had wrought themselves to such an habitual tender- 
ness for the children who were under their direction, that each 
of them had the real passion of a father, where the title was 
but imaginary. Florio, the name of the young heir that lived 
with Leontine, though he had all the duty and affection im- 
aginable for his supposed parent, was taught to rejoice at the 
sight of Eudoxus, who visited his friend very frequently, and 
was dictated by his natural affection, as well as by the rules of 
prudence, to make himself esteemed and beloved by Florio. 
The boy was now old enough to know his supposed father's 
circumstances, and that therefore he was to make his way in 
the world by his own industry. This consideration grew stronger 
in him every day, and produced so good an effect, that he 
applied himself with more than ordinary attention to the pur- 
suit of everything which Leontine recommended to him. His 
natural abilities, which were very good, assisted by the direc- 
tions of so excellent a counselor, enabled him to make a quicker 
progress than ordinary through all the parts of his education. 



THE SPECTATOR 143 

Before he was twenty years of age, having finished his studies 
and exercises with great applause, he was removed from the 
university to the inns of court, where there are very few that 
make themselves considerable proficients in the studies of the 
place, who know they shall arrive at great estates without them. 
This was not Florio's case ; he found that three hundred a 
year was but a poor estate for Leontine and himself to live 
upon, so that he studied without intermission till he gained a 
very good insight into the constitution and laws of his country. 
I should have told my reader that, while Florio lived at the 
house of his foster-father, he was always an acceptable guest 
in the family of Eudoxus, where he became acquainted with 
Leonilla from her infancy. His acquaintance with her by de- 
grees grew into love, which in a mind trained up in all the 
sentiments of honour and virtue became a very uneasy passion. 
He despaired of gaining an heiress of so great a fortune and 
would rather have died than attempted it by any indirect 
methods. Leonilla, who was a woman of the greatest beauty, 
joined with the greatest modesty, entertained at the same time 
a secret passion for Florio, but conducted herself with so much 
prudence that she never gave him the least intimation of it. 
Florio was now engaged in all those arts and improvements 
that are proper to raise a man's private fortune and give him 
a figure in his country, but secretly tormented with that passion 
which burns with the greatest fury in a virtuous and noble 
heart, when he received a sudden summons from Leontine to 
repair to him into the country the next day : for it seems 
Eudoxus was so filled with the report of his son's reputation, 
that he could no longer withhold making himself known to 
him. The morning after his arrival at the house of his sup- 
posed father, Leontine told him that Eudoxus had something 
of great importance to communicate to him ; upon which the 
good man embraced him, and wept. Florio was no sooner 
arrived at the great house that stood in his neighbourhood, but 
Eudoxus took him by the hand, after the first salutes were 
over, and conducted him into his closet. He there opened to 



144 I^HE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

him the whole secret of his parentage and education, conclud- 
ing after this manner : '' I have no other way left of acknowl- 
edging my gratitude to Leontine, than by marrying you to his 
daughter. He shall not lose the pleasure of being your father 
by the discovery I have made to you. Leonilla, too, shall be 
still my daughter : her filial piety, though misplaced, has been 
so exemplary that it deserves the greatest reward I can confer 
upon it. You shall have the pleasure of seeing a great estate 
fall to you, which you would have lost the relish of had you 
known yourself born to it. Continue only to deserve it in the 
same manner you did before you were possessed of it. I have 
left your mother in the next room. Her heart yearns towards 
you. She is making the same discoveries to Leonilla which I 
have made to yourself." Florio was so overwhelmed with this 
profusion of happiness that he was not able to make a reply, 
but threw himself down at his father's feet, and, amidst a flood 
of tears, kissed and embraced his knees, asking his blessing, 
and expressing in dumb show those sentiments of love, duty, 
and gratitude, that were too big for utterance. To conclude, 
the happy pair were married, and half Eudoxus's estate settled 
upon them. Leontine and Eudoxus passed the remainder of 
their lives together, and received in the dutiful and affectionate 
behaviour of Florio and Leonilla the just recompense, as well 
as the natural effects, of that care which they had bestowed 
upon them in their education. L [Addison] ' 



THE VISION OF MIRZA 

No. 159. Saturday, September i, 1711 
Oninem^ quae luuic obdiicta tuenti 



Mortales hebetat visus tibi, et hu77iida circum 
Caligat^ nubem eripiam . — ViRG. 

When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several oriental 
manuscripts, which I have still by. me. Among others I met 
with one entitled, The Visions of Mirza, which I have read 



THE SPECTATOR 145 

over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the pubhc 
when I have no other entertainment for them ; and shall begin 
with the first vision, which I have translated w^ord for word 
as follows : 

On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the custom of my fore- 
fathers I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my 
morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the 
rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on 
the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the van- 
ity of human life ; and passing from one thought to another, " Surely," said 
I, ''man is but a shadow, and life a dream." While I was thus musing, I 
cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where 
I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument 
in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to 
play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a va- 
riety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different 
from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly 
airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first ar- 
rival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify 
them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in 
secret raptures. 

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius ; 
and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but 
never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he 
had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to taste 
the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, 
he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to approach 
the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a 
superior nature ; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating 
strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled 
upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to 
my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with 
which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me 
by the hand, " Mirza," said he, "I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; 
follow me." 

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on 
the top of it — " Cast thy eyes eastward," said he, '' and tell me what thou 
seest." " I see," said I, " a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water roll- 
ing through it." — "The valley that thou seest," said he, "is the Vale of 
Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of eter- 
nity." — "What is the reason," said I. "that the tide I see rises out of a 



146 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other ? " 
— '' What thou seest," said he, " is that portion of eternity which is called 
time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the 
world to its consummation." " Examine now," said he, " this sea that is 
bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in 
it." — "I see a bridge," said I, ^'standing in the midst of the tide." — 
" The bridge thou seest,"" said he, " is human life ; consider it attentively." 
Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore 
and ten entire arches, with.several broken arches, w^hich, added to those that 
were entire, made up the number about a hundred. As I was counting the 
arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand 
arches : but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the 
ruinous condition I now beheld it. " But tell me further," said he, " what 
thou discoverest on it." — "I see multitudes of people passing over it," 
said I, " and a black cloud hanging on each end of it." As I looked more 
attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge 
into the great tide that flowed underneath it : and, upon farther exami- 
nation, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed 
in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell 
through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden 
pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs 
of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into 
them. They grew thinner toward the middle, but multiplied and lay closer 
together toward the end of the arches that were entire. 

There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that 
continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through 
one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. 

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and 
the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a 
deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth 
and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves. 
Some were looking up toward the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in 
the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were 
very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and danced 
before them ; but often when they thought themselves within the reach of 
them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of ob- 
jects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others with urinals, 
who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors 
which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped 
had they not been thus forced upon them. 

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told 
me I had dwelt long enough upon it. '' Take thine eyes off the bridge," 
said he, " and tell me if thou yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend." 



THE SPECTATOR 147 

Upon looking up, " What mean," said I, " those great flights of birds that 
are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time 
to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other 
feathered creatures several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers 
upon the middle arches." — " These," said the genius, " are Envy, Avarice, 
Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest 
human life." 

I here fetched a deep sigh. '^ Alas," said I, " man was made in vain ! how 
is he given away to misery and mortality ! tortured in life, and swallowed 
up in death ! " The genius, being moved with compassion toward me, bid 
me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. " Look no more," said he, '' on man 
in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity ; but cast 
thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several genera- 
tions of mortals that fall into it." I directed my sight as I was ordered, and 
(whether or no the good genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, 
or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to pene- 
trate) I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading forth into 
an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the 
midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on 
one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it : but the other 
appeared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were 
covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shin- 
ing seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious 
habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down 
by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers ; and could hear a con- 
fused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical 
instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a 
scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those 
happy seats : but the genius told me there was no passage to them, except 
through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the 
bridge. " The islands," said he, " that lie so fresh and green before thee, 
and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou 
canst see, are more in number than the sands on the sea-shore ; there are 
myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further 
than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself. These are the 
mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds 
of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands ; 
which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the 
relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them ; every island is 
a paradise accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O 
Mirza, habitations worth contending for .? Does life appear miserable, that 
gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward ? Is death to be feared, 
that will- convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made 



148 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him." I gazed with inexpres- 
sible pleasure on these happy islands. "At length," said I, '' show me now, 
I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover 
the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant." The genius making 
me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but 
I found that he had left me : 1 then turned again to the vision which I had 
been so long contemplating ; but instead of the rolling tide, the arched 
bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long, hollow valley of 
Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides of it. 
The End of the First Vision of Mirza. 

C [Addison] % ^ '.^ 

A COQUETTE'S HEART 

No. 281. Tuesday, January 22, 171 2 
Pectoribus i7ihia7is spirantia consulit exta. — Virg. 

Having already given an account of the dissection of the 
beau's head, with the several discoveries made on that occa- 
sion ; I shall here, according to my promise, enter upon the 
dissection of a coquette's heart, and communicate to the public 
such particularities as we observed in that curious piece of 
anatomy. 

I should perhaps have waived this undertaking, had not I 
been put in mind of my promise by several of my unknown 
correspondents, who are very importunate with me to make 
an example of the coquette, as I have already done of the 
beau. It is therefore in compliance with the request of my 
friends, that I have looked over the minutes of my former 
dream, in order to give the public an exact relation of it, 
which I shall enter upon without further preface. 

Our operator, before he engaged in this visionary dissec- 
tion, told us that there was nothing in his art more difficult 
than to lay open the heart of a coquette, by reason of the 
many labyrinths and recesses which are to be found in it, 
and which do not appear in the heart of any other animal. 

He desired us first of all to observe the pericardium, or 
ontw^rd case of the heart, which we did very attentively; and 



THE SPECTATOR 149 

by the help of our glasses discerned in it millions of little 
scars, which seemed to have been occasioned by the points of 
innumerable darts and arrows, that from time to time had 
glanced upon the outward coat ; though we could not discover 
the smallest orifice, by which any of them had entered and 
pierced the inward substance. 

Every smatterer in anatomy knows that this pericardium, or 
case of the heart, contains in it a thin reddish liquor, sup- 
posed to be bred from the vapours which exhale out of the 
heart, and being stopped here, are condensed into this watery 
substance. Upon examining this liquor, we found that it had 
in it all the qualities of that spirit which is made use of in 
the thermometer, to show the change of weather. 

Nor must I here omit an experiment one of the company 
assured us he himself had made with this liquor, which he 
found in great quantity about the heart of a coquette whom 
he had formerly dissected. He afifirmed to us that he had 
actually inclosed it in a small tube made after the manner 
of a weather-glass ; but that instead of acquainting him with 
the variations of the atmosphere, it showed him the qualities 
of those persons who entered the room where it stood. He 
affirmed also that it rose at the approach of a plume of 
feathers, an embroidered coat, or a pair of fringed gloves ; 
and that it fell as soon as an ill-shaped periwig, a cliimsy pair 
of shoes, or an unfashionable coat came into his house. Nay, 
he proceeded so far as to assure us that upon his laughing 
aloud when he stood by it, the liquor mounted very sensibly, 
and immediately sunk again upon his looking serious. In 
short, he told us that he knew very well, by this invention, 
whenever he had a man of sense or a coxcomb in his room. 

Having cleared away the pericardium, or the case, and 
liquor above-mentioned, we came to the heart itself. The 
outward surface of it was extremely slippery, and the mucro, 
or point, so very cold withal, that upon endeavouring to take 
hold of it, it glided through the fingers like a smooth piece 
of ice. 



150 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

The fibers were turned and twisted in a more intricate and 
perplexed manner than they are usually found in other hearts ; 
insomuch that the whole heart was wound up together in a 
Gordian knot, and must have had very irregular and unequal 
motions, while it was employed in its vital function. . 

One thing we thought very observable, namely, that upon 
examining all the vessels which came into it, or issued out of 
it, we could not discover any communication that it had with 
the tongue. 

We could not but take notice likewise, that several of those 
little nerves in the heart which are affected by the sentiments 
of love, hatred, and other passions, did not descend to this 
before us from the brain, but from the muscles which lie 
about the eye. 

Upon weighing the heart in my hand, I found it to be 
extremely light, and consequently very hollow, which I did 
not wonder at, when, upon looking into the inside of it, I 
saw multitudes of cells and cavities, running one within an- 
other, as our historians describe the apartments of Rosamond's 
bower. Several of these little hollows were stuffed with in- 
numerable sorts of trifles, which I shall forbear giving any 
particular account of, and shall therefore only take notice of 
what lay first and uppermost, which upon our unfolding it, 
and applying our microscope to it, appeared to be a flame- 
coloured hood. 

We were informed that the lady of this heart, when living, 
received the addresses of several who made love to her, and 
did not only give each of them encouragement, but made 
every one she conversed with believe that she regarded him 
with an eye of kindness ; for which reason we expected to 
have seen the impressions of multitudes of faces among the 
several plaits and foldings of the heart ; but to our great sur- 
prise not a single print of this nature discovered itself till we 
came into the very core and center of it. We there observed 
a little figure, which, upon applying our glasses to it, appeared 
dressed in a very fantastic manner. The more I looked upon 



THE SPECTATOR 151 

it, the more I thought I had seen the face before, but could 
not possibly recollect either the place or time ; when at length, 
one of the company, who had examined this figure more 
nicely than the rest, showed us plainly by the make of its 
face, and the several turns of its features, that the little idol 
that was thus lodged in the very middle of the heart was the 
deceased beau, whose head I gave some account of in my last 
Tuesday's paper. 

As soon as we had finished our dissection, we resolved to 
make an experiment of the heart, not being able to determine 
among ourselves the nature of its substance, which differed in 
so many particulars from that of the heart in other females. 
Accordingly we laid it in a pan of burning coals, when we 
observed in it a certain salamandrine quality, that made it 
capable of living in the midst of fire and flame, without being 
consumed, or ,so much as singed. 

As we were admiring this strange phenomenon, and stand- 
ing round the heart in a circle, it gave a most prodigious sigh, 
or rather crack, and dispersed all at once in smoke and vapour. 
This imaginary noise, which, methought, was louder than the 
burst of a cannon, produced such a violent shake in my brain, 
that it dissipated the fumes of sleep and left me in an instant 
broad awake. L [Addison] 

CLARINDA'S JOURNAL 

No. 323. Tuesday, March 11, 171 2 
Modo vir, modo femina — ^= . — Ovid. 



The journal with which I presented my reader on Tuesday 
last, has brought me in several letters with account of many 
private lives cast into that form. I have the Rake s JoiLrnal, 
the Sofs Jounialy the WJi07'emaster s Journal, and among 
several others, a very curious piece, entitled The Journal of 
a Mohock. By these instances, I find that the intention of 
my last Tuesday's paper has been mistaken by many of my 



152 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

readers. I did not design so much to expose vice, as idleness, 
and aimed at those persons who pass away their time rather 
in trifle and impertinence, than in crimes and immoraUties. 
Offenses of this latter kind are not to be dallied with, or treated 
in so ludicrous a manner. In short, my journal only holds 
up folly to the light, and shows the disagreeableness of such 
actions as are indifferent in themselves, and blamable only as 
they proceed from creatures endowed with reason. 

My following correspondent, who calls herself Clarinda, is 
such a journalist as I require. She seems by her letter to 
be placed in a modish state of indifference between vice and 
virtue, and to be susceptible of either, were there proper pains 
taken with her. Had her journal been filled with gallantries, 
or such occurrences as had shown her wholly divested of her 
natural innocence, notwithstanding it might have been more 
pleasing to the generality of readers, I should not have pub- 
lished it : but as it is only the picture of a life filled with a 
fashionable kind of gayety and laziness, I shall set down five 
days of it, as I have received it from the hand of my fair 
correspondent. 

Dear Mr. Spectator, 

You having set your readers an exercise in one of your last week's 
papers, I have performed mine according to your orders, and herewith 
send it you inclosed. You must know, Mr. Spectator, that I am a maiden 
lady of a good fortune, who have had several good matches offered me 
for these ten years last past, and have at present warm applications made 
to me by " A Very Pretty Fellow." As I am at my own disposal, I come 
up to town every winter, and pass my time in it after the manner you 
will find in the following journal, which I began to write upon the very 
day after your Spectator upon that subject. 

" Tuesday night. Could not go to sleep till one in the morning for 
thinking of my journal. 

" Wedftesday. From eight till ten. Drank two dishes of chocolate 
in bed, and fell asleep after them. 

" From ten to eleven. Ate a slice of bread and butter, drank a dish 
of bohea, and read the Spectator. 

" From eleven to one. At my toilette, tried a new head. Gave orders 
for Veny to be combed and washed. Mem. I look best in blue. 



THE SPECTATOR 153 

" From one till half an hour after two. Drove to the 'Change. 
Cheapened a couple of fans. 

" Till four. At dinner. Mem. Mr. Froth passed by in his new liveries. 

'' From four to six. Dressed ; paid a visit to old Lady Blithe and her 
sister, having before heard they were gone out of town that day. 

" From six to eleven. At basset. Mem. Never set again upon the ace 
of diamonds. 

" Thursday. From eleven at night to eight in the morning. Dreamed 
that I punted to Mr. Froth. 

" From eight to ten. Chocolate. Read two acts in Aurengzebe a-bed. 

" From ten to eleven. Tea-table. Sent to borrow Lady Faddle's Cupid 
for Veny. Read the play-bills. Received a letter from Mr. Froth. Mem. 
Locked it up in my strong box. 

" Rest of the morning. Fontange, the tire-woman, her account of my 
lady Blithe's wash. Broke a tooth in my little tortoise-shell comb. Sent 
Frank to know how my Lady Hectic rested after her monkey's leaping 
out at window. Looked pale. Fontange tells me my glass is not true. 
Dressed by three. 

'' From three to four. Dinner cold before I sat down. 

'' From four to eleven. Saw company. Mr. Froth's opinion of Milton. 
His account of the Mohocks. His fancy of a pincushion. Picture in the 
lid of his snuff-box. Old Lady Faddle promises me her woman to cut 
my hair. Lost five guineas at crimp. -^ 

"Twelve o'clock at night. Went to bed. 

^^ Friday. Eight in the morning. A-bed. Read over all Mr. Froth's 
letters. Cupid and Veny. 

'^ Ten o'clock. Stayed within all day, not at home. 

" From ten to twelve. In conference with my mantuamaker. Sorted 
a suit of ribbons. Broke my blue china cup. 

" From twelve to one. Shut myself up in my chamber, practiced Lady 
Betty Modley's skutde. 

" One in the afternoon. Called for my flowered handkerchief. Worked 
half a violet leaf in it. Eyes ached and head out of order. Threw by 
my work, and read over the remaining part of Aurengzebe. 

" From three to four. Dined. 

" From four to twelve. Changed my mind, dressed, went abroad, and 
played at crimp till midnight. Found Mrs. Spitely at home. Conversation. 
Mrs. Brilliant's necklace false stones. Old Lady Loveday going to be married 
to a young fellow that is not worth a groat. Miss Prue gone into the coun- 
try. Tom Townley has red hair. Mem. Mrs. Spitely whispered in my ear 
that she had something to tell me about Mr. Froth ; I am sure it is not true. 
" Between twelve and one. Dreamed that Mr. Froth lay at my feet, 
and called me Indamora. 



154 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

^^ Saturday. Rose at eight o'clock in the morning. Sat down to my 
toilette. 

'' From eight to nine. Shifted a patch for half an hour before I conld 
determine it. Fixed it above my left eyebrow. 

" From nine to twelve. Drank my tea and dressed. 

" From twelve to two. At chapel. A great deal of good company. 
Mem. The third air in the new opera. Lady Blithe dressed frightfully. 

" From three to four. Dined. Miss Kitty called upon me to go to the 
opera before I was risen from table. 

" From dinner to six. Drank tea. Turned off a footman for being 
rude to Veny. 

" Six o'clock. Went to the opera. I did not see Mr. Froth till the 
beginning of the second act. Mr. Froth talked to a gentleman in a black 
wig. Bowed to a lady in the front box. Mr. Froth and his friend clapped 
Nicolini in the third act. Mr. Froth cried out ' Ancora.' Mr. Froth led 
me to my chair. I think he squeezed my hand. 

" Eleven at night. Went to bed. Melancholy dreams. Methought 
Nicolini said he was Mr. Froth. 

^^ Sunday. Indisposed. 

^' Mo7tday. Eight o'clock. Waked by Miss Kitty. Aureiigzebe lay 
upon the chair by me. Kitty repeated without book the eight best lines in 
the play. Went in our mobs to the dumb man, according to appointment. 
Told me that my lover's name began with a G. Mem. The conjurer was 
within a letter of Mr. Froth's name, etc." 

Upon looking back into this my journal, I find that I am at a loss to 
know whether I pass my time well or ill ; and indeed never thought of 
considering how I did it before I perused your speculation upon that sub- 
ject. I scarce find a single action in these five days that I can thoroughly 
approve of, except in the working upon the violet leaf, which I am resolved 
to finish the first day I am at leisure. As for Mr. Froth and Veny, I did 
not think they took up so much of my time and thoughts as 1 find they do 
upon my journal. The latter of them I will turn off, if you insist upon it ; 
and if Mr. Froth does not bring matters to a conclusion very suddenly, 
I will not let my life run away in a dream. 

Your humble Servant, 

Clarinda. 

To resume one of the morals of my first paper, and to con- 
firm Clarinda in her good inclinations, I would have her con- 
sider what a pretty figure she would make among posterity, 
were the history of her whole life published like these five 
days of it. I shall conclude my paper with an epitaph written 



THE SPECTATOR 155 

by an uncertain author on Sir Philip Sidney's sister, a lady 
who seems to have been of a temper very much different from 
that of Clarinda. The last thought of it is so very noble, that 
I dare say my reader will pardon me the quotation. 

ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE 

Underneath this marble hearse 

Lies the subject of all verse, 

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; 

Death, ere thou hast kill'd another, 

Fair and learn'd, and good as she, 

Time shall throw a dart at thee. L 

[Addison] | 6» (> 

CHEERFULNESS 

No. 381. Saturday, May 17, 1712 

Aequam menieiito rebus in ai'duis 
Servare mentem, non secus in bonis ^ 

Ab insoknti temperatam 

Laetitia, morittire Deli. — Hor. 

I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter 
I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. 
Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and perma- 
nent. Those are often raised into the greatest transports of 
mirth, who are subject to the greatest depressions of melan- 
choly. On the contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not give 
the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling 
into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, 
that breaks through a gloom of clouds and glitters for a 
moment ; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the 
mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity. 

Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton 
and dissolute for a state of probation, and as filled with a 
certain triumph and insolence of heart that is inconsistent 
with a life which is every moment obnoxious to the greatest 



156 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

dangers. Writers of this complexion have observed that the 
Sacred Person who was the great pattern of perfection was 
never seen to laugh. 

Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these excep- 
tions ; it is of a serious and composed nature ; it does not 
throw the mind into a condition improper for the present 
state of humanity, and is very conspicuous in the characters 
of those who are looked upon as the greatest philosophers 
among the heathens, as well as among those who have been 
deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among Christians. 

If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to 
ourselves, to those we converse with, and to the great Author 
of our being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of 
these accounts. The man who is possessed of this excellent 
frame of mind is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect 
master of all the powers and faculties of his soul. His imag- 
ination is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed ; his 
temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or in solitude. 
He comes with relish to all those goods which nature has pro- 
vided for him, tastes all the pleasures of the creation which 
are poured about him, and does not feel the full weight of 
those accidental evils which may befall him. 

If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he 
converses with, it naturally produces love and good-will towards 
him. A cheerful mind is not only disposed to be affable and 
obliging, but raises the same good humour in those who come 
within its influence. A man finds himself pleased, he does 
not know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion. It is 
like a sudden sunshine that awakens a secret delight in the 
mind, without her attending to it. The heart rejoices of its 
own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship and benev- 
olence toward the person who has so kindly an effect upon it. 

When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third 
relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant habitual grati- 
tude to the great Author of nature. An inward cheerfulness 
is an implicit praise and thanksgiving to Providence under all 



THE SPECTATOR 157 

its dispensations. It is a kind of acquiescence in the state* 
wherein we are placed, and a secret approbation of the Divine 
Will in his conduct toward man. 

There are but two things which, in my opinion, can reason- 
ably deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of 
these is the sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state of 
vice and impenitence can have no title to that evenness and 
tranquillity of mind which is the health of the soul, and the 
natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness in an ill 
man deserves a harder name than language can furnish us 
with, and is many degrees beyond what we commonly call 
folly or madness. 

Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Being, 
and consequently of a future state, under whatsoever titles it 
shelters itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of 
this cheerfulness of temper. There is something so particu- 
larly gloomy and offensive to human nature in the prospect of 
non-existence, that I cannot but wonder, with many excellent 
writers, how it is possible for a man to outlive the expectation 
of it. For my own part, I think the being of a God is so 
.little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth we are 
■^sure of ; and such a truth as we meet with in every object, in 
every occurrence, and in every thought. If we look into the 
characters of this tribe of infidels, we generally find they are 
made up of pride, spleen, and cavil. It is indeed no wonder 
that men who are uneasy to themselves should be so to the 
rest of the world ; and how is it possible for a man to be 
otherwise than uneasy in himself, who is in danger every 
moment of losing his entire existence, and dropping into 
nothing } 

The vicious man and atheist have therefore no pretense to 
cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably should they en- 
deavour after it. It is impossible for any one to live in good- 
humour, and enjoy his present existence, who is apprehensive 
either of torment or of annihilation, of being miserable, or of 
not being at all. 



158 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

After having mentioned these two great principles, which 
are destructive of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well as 
in right reason, I cannot think of any other that ought to 
banish this happy temper from a virtuous mind. Pain and 
sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and old age, nay death 
itself, considering the shortness of their duration, and the 
advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve the name 
of evils. A good mind may bear up under them with forti- 
tude, with indolence, and with cheerfulness of heart. The 
tossing of a tempest does not discompose him, which he is 
sure will bring him to a joyful harbour. 

A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the 
dictates of virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources 
of cheerfulness, in the consideration of his own nature, and of 
that Being on whom he has a dependence. If he looks into 
himself, he cannot but rejoice in that existence which is so 
lately bestowed upon him, and which after millions of ages 
will be still new and still in its beginning. How many self- 
congratulations naturally arise in the mind, when it reflects on 
this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a view of those 
improvable faculties, which in a few years, and even at its 
first setting out, have made so considerable a progress, and 
which will still be receiving an increase of perfection, and con- 
sequently an increase of happiness. The consciousness of such 
a being spreads a perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul 
of a virtuous man, and makes him look upon himself every 
moment as more happy than he knows how to conceive. 

The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind is its 
consideration of that Being on whom we have our dependence, 
and in whom, though we behold him as yet but in the first 
faint discoveries of his perfections, we see everything that we 
can imagine, as great, glorious, or amiable. We find ourselves 
everywhere upheld by his goodness, and surrounded with an 
immensity of love and mercy. In short, we depend upon a 
Being whose power qualifies him to make us happy by an 
infinity of means, whose goodness and truth engage him to 



THE SPECTATOR 159 

make those happy who desire it of him, and whose unchange- 
ableness will secure us in this happiness to all eternity. 

Such considerations, which every one should perpetually 
cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us all that secret 
heaviness of heart which unthinking men are subject to when 
they lie under no real affliction, all that anguish which we may 
feel from any evil that actually oppresses us, to which I may 
likewise add those little cracklings of mirth and folly that are 
apter to betray virtue than support it ; and establish in us such 
an even and cheerful temper, as makes us pleasing to our- 
selves, to those with whom we converse, and to Him whom 
we were made to please. I [Addison] / i i 



LITERARY TASTE 

No. 409. Thursday, June 19, 1712 
- MuscBO contingens ciuicta lepore. — LuCR. 



Gratian very often recommends '' the fine taste " as the 
utmost perfection of an accomplished man. As this word 
arises very often in conversation, I shall endeavour to give 
some account of it, and to lay down rules how we may know 
whether we are possessed of it, and how we may acquire that 
fine taste of writing which is so much talked of among the 
polite world. 

Most languages make use of this metaphor, to express that 
faculty of the mind which distinguishes all the most concealed 
faults and nicest perfections in writing. We may be sure this 
metaphor would not have been so general in all tongues, had 
there not been a very great conformity between that mental 
taste, which is the subject of this paper, and that sensitive 
taste, which gives us a relish of every different flavour that 
affects the palate. Accordingly we find there are as many 
degrees of refinement in the intellectual faculty as in the sense 
which is marked out by this common denomination. 



i6o THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

I knew a person who possessed the one in so great a per- 
fection, that, after having tasted ten different kinds of tea, he 
would distinguish, without seeing the colour of it, the particu- 
lar sort which was offered him ; and not only so, but any two 
sorts of thenx that were mixed together in an equal propor- 
tion ; nay, he has carried the experiment so far, as, upon 
tasting the composition of three different sorts, to name the 
parcels from whence the three several ingredients were taken. 
A man of a fine taste in writing wall discern, after the same 
manner, not only the general beauties and imperfections of an 
author, but discover the several ways of thinking and express- 
ing himself, which diversify him from all other authors, with 
the several foreign infusions of thought and language, and 
the particular authors from whom they were borrowed. 

After having thus far explained what is generally meant by 
a fine taste in writing, and shown the propriety of the meta- 
phor which is used on this occasion, I think I may define it 
to be ''that faculty of the soul, \vhich discerns the beauties of 
an author with pleasure, and the imperfections with dislike." 
If a man would know whether he is possessed of this faculty, 
I would have him read over the celebrated works of antiquity, 
which have stood the test of so many different ages and coun- 
tries, or those works among the moderns which have the 
sanction of the politer part of our contemporaries. If, upon 
the perusal of such writings, he does not find himself delighted 
in an extraordinary manner, or if, upon reading the admired 
passages in such authors, he finds a coldness and indifference 
in his thoughts, he ought to conclude, not (as is too usual 
among tasteless readers) that the author wants those perfec- 
tions which have been admired in him, but that he himself 
wants the faculty of discovering them. 

He should, in the second place, be very careful to observe 
whether he tastes the distinguishing perfections, or, if I may 
be allowed to call them so, the specific qualities of the author 
whom he peruses ; whether he is particularly pleased with 
Livy for his manner of telling a story, with Sallust for his 



THE SPECTATOR i6i 

entering into those internal principles of action which arise 
from the characters and manners of the persons he describes, 
or with Tacitus for displaying those outward motives of safety 
and interest which give birth to the whole series of trans- 
actions which he relates. 

He may likewise consider how differently he is affected by 
the same thought which presents itself in a great writer, from 
what he is when he finds it delivered by a person of an ordi- 
nary genius ; for there is as much difference in apprehending 
a thought clothed in Cicero's language, and that of a common 
author, as in seeing an object by the light of a taper, or by 
the light of the sun. 

It is very difficult to lay down rules for the acquirement of 
such a taste as that I am here speaking of. The faculty must, 
in some degree, be born with us ; and it very often happens 
that those who have other qualities in perfection are wholly 
void of this. One of the most eminent mathematicians of the 
age has assured me that the greatest pleasure he took in read- 
ing Virgil was in examining yEneas's voyage by the map ; as 
I question not but many a modern compiler of history would 
be delighted with little more in that divine author than the 
bare matters of fact. 

But, notwithstanding this faculty must in some measure be 
born with us, there are several methods for cultivating and 
improving it, and without which it will be very uncertain, and 
of little use to the person that possesses it. The most natural 
method for this purpose is to be conversant among the writings 
of the most polite authors. A man who has any relish for fine 
writing either discovers new beauties, or receives stronger im- 
pressions, from the masterly strokes of a great author, every 
time he peruses him ; beside that he naturally wears himself 
into the same manner of speaking and thinking. 

Conversation with men of a polite genius is another method 
for improving our natural taste. It- is impossible for a man of 
the greatest parts to consider anything in its whole extent, and 
in all its variety of lights. Every man, beside those general 



1 62 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

observations which are to be made upon an author, forms 
several reflections that are pecuHar to his own manner of think- 
ing ; so that conversation will naturally furnish us with hints 
which we did not attend to, and make us enjoy other men's 
parts and reflections as well as our own. This is the best 
reason I can give for the observation which several have made, 
that men of great genius in the same way of writing seldom 
rise up singly, but at certain periods of time appear together, 
and in a body ; as they did at Rome in the reign of Augustus, 
and in Greece about the age of Socrates. I cannot think that 
Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau, La Fontaine, Bruyere, 
Bossu, or the Daciers, would have written so well as they 
have done, had they not been friends and contemporaries. 

It is likewise necessary for a man who would form to him- 
self a finished taste of good writing to be well versed in the 
works of the best critics, both ancient and modern. I must 
confess that I could wish there were authors of this kind, who 
beside the mechanical rules, which a man of very little taste 
may discourse upon, would enter into the very spirit and soul 
of fine writing, and show us the several sources of that pleas- 
ure which rises in the mind upon the perusal of a noble work. 
Thus, although in poetry it be absolutely necessary that the 
unities of time, place, and action, with other points of the 
same nature, should be thoroughly explained and understood, 
there is still something more essential to the art, something 
that elevates and astonishes the fancy, and gives a greatness of 
mind to the reader, which few of the critics beside Longinus 
have considered. 

Our general taste in England is for epigram, turns of wit, 
and forced conceits, which have no manner of influence either 
for the bettering or enlarging the mind of him who reads 
them, and have been carefully avoided by the greatest writers 
both among the ancients and moderns. I have endeavoured, 
in several of my speculations, to banish this Gothic taste 
which has taken possession among us. I entertained the town 
for a week together with an essay upon wit, in which I 



THE SPECTATOR 163 

endeavoured to detect several of those false kinds which have 
been admired in the different ages of the world, and at the 
same time to show wherein the nature of true wit consists. I 
afterward gave an instance of the great force which lies in a 
natural simplicity of thought to affect the mind of the reader, 
from such vulgar pieces as have little else beside this single 
qualification to recommend them. I have likewise examined 
the works of the greatest poet which our nation, or perhaps 
any other has produced, and particularized most of those 
rational and manly beauties which give a value to that divine 
work. I shall next Saturday enter upon an essay on " The 
Pleasures of the Imagination," which, though it shall consider 
that subject at large, will perhaps suggest to the reader what 
it is that gives a beauty to many passages of the finest writers 
both in prose and verse. As an undertaking of this nature 
is entirely new, I question not but it will be received with 
candour. O [Addison] v ^ ^ 

ON RAILLERY 

No. 422. Friday, July 4, 1712 

Haec . . . scripsi . . . non otii ahunda7itia sed amoris 
erga te. — Tull. Epis. 

I do not know anything which gives greater disturbance to 
conversation than the false notion some people have of rail- 
lery. It ought, certainly, to be the first point to be aimed at 
in society, to gain the good-will of those with whom you 
converse ; the way to that is to show you are well inclined 
toward them. What then can be more absurd than to set up 
for being extremely sharp and biting, as the term is, in your 
expressions to your familiars } A man who has no good 
quality but courage is in a very ill way toward making an 
agreeable figure in the world, because that which he has supe- 
rior to other people cannot be exerted without raising himself 
an enemy. Your gentleman of a satirical vein is in the like 



i64 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

condition. To say a thing which perplexes the heart of him 
you speak to, or brings blushes into his face, is a degree of 
murder ; and it is, I think, an unpardonable offense to show 
a man you do not care whether he is pleased or displeased. 
But won't you then take a jest.? — Yes : but pray let it be a 
jest. It is no jest to put me, who am so unhappy as to have 
an utter aversion to speaking to more than one man at a 
time, under a necessity to explain myself in much company, 
and reducing me to shame and derision, except I perform 
.what my infirmity of silence disables me to do. 

Calisthenes has great wit, accompanied with that quality 
without which a man can have no wit at all — a sound judg- 
ment. This gentleman rallies the best of any man I know ; 
for he forms his ridicule upon a circumstance which you are, 
in your heart, not unwilling to grant him ; to wit, that you are 
guilty of an excess in something which is in itself laudable. 
He very well understands what you would be, and needs not 
fear your anger for declaring you are a little too much that 
thing. The generous will bear being reproached as lavish, and 
the valiant rash, without being provoked to resentment against 
their monitor. What has been said to be a mark of a good 
writer will fall in with the character of a good companion. 
The good writer makes his reader better pleased with himself, 
and the agreeable man makes his friends enjoy themselves, 
rather than him, while he is in their company. Calisthenes 
does this with inimitable pleasantry. He whispered a friend 
the other day, so as to be overheard by a young officer who 
gave symptoms of cocking upon the company, ' ' That gentle- 
man has very much of the air of a general officer." The youth 
immediately put on a composed behaviour, and behaved himself 
suitably to the conceptions he believed the company had of 
him. It is to be allowed that Calisthenes will make a man 
run into impertinent relations to his own advantage, and ex- 
press the satisfaction he has in his own dear self, till he is 
very ridiculous ; but in this case the man is made a fool by 
his own consent, and not exposed as such whether he will or 



THE SPECTATOR 165 

no. I take it, therefore, that to make raillery agreeable, a 
man must either not know he is rallied, or think never the 
worse of himself if he sees he is. 

Acetus is of a quite contrary genius, and is more generally 
admired than Calisthenes, but not with justice. Acetus has no 
regard to the modesty or weakness of the person he rallies ; 
but if his quality or humility gives him any superiority to the 
man he would fall upon, he has no mercy in making the 
onset. He can be pleased to see his best friend out of coun- 
tenance, while the laugh is loud in his own applause. His 
raillery always puts the company into little divisions and sepa- 
rate interests, while that of Calisthenes cements it, and makes 
every man not only better pleased with himself, but also with 
all the rest in the conversation. 

To rally well, it is absolutely necessary that kindness must 
run through all you say ; and you must ever preserve the char- 
acter of a friend to support your pretensions to be free with a 
man. Acetus ought to be banished human society, because he 
raises his mirth upon giving pain to the person upon whom he 
is pleasant. Nothing but the malevolence which is too general 
toward those who excel could make his company tolerated ; but 
they with whom he converses are sure to see some man sacri- 
ficed wherever he is admitted ; and all the credit he has for wit, 
is owing to the gratification it gives to other men's ill-nature. 

Minutius has a wit that conciliates a man's love, at the 
same time that it is exerted against his faults. He has an art 
in keeping the person he rallies in countenance, by insinuat- 
ing that he himself is guilty of the same imperfection. This 
"he does with so much address that he seems rather to bewail 
himself, than fall upon his friend. 

It is really monstrous to see how unaccountably it prevails 
among men to take the liberty of displeasing each other. One 
would think sometimes that the contention is who shall be 
most disagreeable. Allusions to past follies, hints which revive 
what a man has a mind to forget forever, and deserves that 
all the rest of the world should, are commonly brought forth 



1 66 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

even in company of men of distinction. They do not thrust 
with the skill of fencers, but cut up with the barbarity of 
butchers. It is, methinks, below the character of men of 
humanity and good-manners to be capable of mirth while there 
is any one of the company in pain and disorder. They who 
have the true taste of conversation enjoy themselves in a com- 
munication of each other's excellencies, and not in a triumph 
over their imperfections. Fortius would have been reckoned 
a wit if there had never been a fool in the world ; he wants 
not foils to be a beauty, but has that natural pleasure in ob- 
serving perfection in others, that his own faults are overlooked, 
out of gratitude, by all his acquaintance. 

After these several characters of men who succeed or fail 
in raillery, it may not be amiss to reflect a little further what 
one takes to be the most agreeable kind of it ; and that to 
me appears when the satire is directed against vice, with an 
air of contempt of the fault, but no ill-will to the criminal. 
Mr. Congreve's Doris is a masterpiece in this kind. It is the 
character of a woman utterly abandoned ; but her impudence, 
by the finest piece of raillery, is made only generosity : 

Peculiar therefore is her way, 

Whether by nature taught, 
I shall not undertake to say, 

Or by experience bought ; 

But who o'ernight obtain'd her grace 

She can next day disown, 
And stare upon the strange man's face, 

As one she ne'er had known. 

So well she can the truth disguise, 

Such artful wonder frame, 
The lover or distrusts his eyes, 

Or thinks 't was all a dream. 

Some censure this as lewd or low, 

Who are to bounty blind ; 

But to forget what we bestow 

rr- n Bespeaks a noble mind. T 

[Steele] 



THE SPECTATOR i6j 

ON GARDENS 

No. 477. Saturday, September 6, 1712 
An me ludit a77iabilis 



I7isa7iia ? Audire et videor pios 
Errare per lucos amoefKE 

Quos et aqiice subeicnt et aurm. — Hor. 

Sir, 

Having lately read your essay on ''The Pleasures of the Im- 
agination," I was so taken with your thoughts upon some of 
our English gardens that I cannot forbear troubling you with 
a letter upon that subject. I am one, you must know, who am 
looked upon as a humorist in gardening. I have several acres 
about my house, which I call my garden, and which a skillful 
gardener would not know what to call. It is a confusion of 
kitchen and parterre, orchard and flower garden, which lie 
so mixed and interwoven with one another that if a foreigner 
who had seen nothing of our country should be conveyed 
into my garden at his first landing, he would look upon it as 
a natural wilderness, and one of the uncultivated parts of our 
country. My flowers grow up in several parts of the garden 
in the greatest luxuriancy and profusion. I am so far from 
being fond of any particular one, by reason of its rarity, that 
if I meet with any one in a field which pleases me, I give it 
a place in my garden. By this means, when a stranger walks 
with me, he is surprised to see several large spots of ground 
covered with ten thousand different colours, and has often 
singled out flowers that he might have met with under a 
common hedge, in a field, or in a meadow, as some of the 
greatest beauties of the place. The only method I observe in 
this particular is to range in the same quarter the products of 
the same season, that they may make their appearance to- 
gether, and compose a picture of the greatest variety. There 
is the same irregularity in my plantations, which run into as 
great a wildness as their natures will permit. I take in none 



1 68 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

that do not naturally rejoice in the soil ; and am pleased, when 
I am walking in a labyrinth of my ow^n raising, not to know 
whether the next tree I shall meet with is an apple or an oak, 
an elm or a pear-tree. My kitchen has likewise its particular 
quarters assigned it ; for beside the wholesome luxury which 
that place abounds with, I have always thought a kitchen- 
garden a more pleasant sight than the finest orangery, or arti- 
ficial green-house. I love to see everything in its perfection ; 
and am more pleased to survey my rows of coleworts and 
cabbages, with a thousand nameless pot-herbs, springing up in 
their full fragrancy and verdure, than to see the tender plants 
of foreign countries kept alive by artificial heats, or withering 
in an air and soil that are not adapted to them. I must not 
omit that there is a fountain rising in the upper part of my 
garden, which forms a little wandering rill, and administers to 
the pleasure as well as the plenty of the place. I have so con- 
ducted it that it visits most of my plantations : and have taken 
particular care to let it run in the same manner as it would do 
in an open field, so that it generally passes through banks of 
violets and primroses, plats of willow, or other plants, that 
seem to be of its own producing. There is another circum- 
stance in which I am very particular, or, as my neighbours call 
me, very whimsical : as my garden invites into it all the birds 
of the country, by offering them the conveniency of springs 
and shades, solitude and shelter, I do not suffer any one to 
destroy their nests in the spring, or drive them from their 
usual haunts in fruit-time ; I value my garden more for being 
full of blackbirds than cherries, and very frankly give them 
fruit for their songs. By this means, I have always the music 
of the season in its perfection, and am highly delighted to see 
the jay or the thrush hopping about my walks, and shooting 
before my eye across the several little glades and alleys that 
I pass through. I think there are as many kinds of gardening 
as of poetry : your makers of parterres and flower-gardens are 
epigrammatists and sonneteers in this art ; contrivers of bowers 
and grottoes, treillages and cascades, are romance writers. Wise 
and London are our heroic poets ; and if, as a critic, I may 



THE SPECTATOR 169 

single out any passage of their works to commend, I shall 
take notice of that part in the upper garden at Kensington, 
which was at first nothing but a gravel-pit. It must have been 
a fine genius for gardening that could have thought of form- 
ing such an unsightly hollow into so beautiful an area, and to 
have hit the eye with so uncommon and agreeable a scene as 
that which it is now wrought into. To give this particular spot 
of ground the greater effect, they have made a very pleasing 
contrast ; for, as on one side of the walk you see this hollow 
basin, with its several little plantations, lying so conveniently 
under the eye of the beholder, on the other side of it there 
appears a seeming mount, made up of trees, rising one higher 
than another, in proportion as they approach the center. A spec- 
tator, who has not heard this account of it, would think this 
circular mount was not only a real one, but that it had been 
actually scooped out of that hollow space which I have before 
mentioned. I never yet met with any one who has walked in 
this garden, who was not struck with that part of it which I 
have here mentioned. As for myself, you will find, by the 
account which I have already given you, that my compositions 
in gardening are altogether after the Pindaric manner, and 
run into the beautiful wildness of nature, without affecting the 
nicer elegances of art. What I am now going to mention will 
perhaps deserve your attention more than anything I have yet 
said. I find that, in the discourse which I spoke of at the be- 
ginning of my letter, you are against filling an English garden 
with evergreens ; and indeed I am so far of your opinion, that 
I can by no means think the verdure of an evergreen com- 
parable to that which shoots out annually, and clothes our 
trees in the summer season. But I have often wondered that 
those who are like myself, and love to live in gardens, have 
never thought of contriving a winter garden, which should 
consist of such trees only as never cast their leaves. We have 
very often little snatches of sunshine and fair weather in the 
most uncomfortable parts of the year, and have frequently sev- 
eral days in November and January that are as agreeable as 
any in the finest months. At such times, therefore, I think 



I/O THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

there could not be a greater pleasure than to walk in such a 
winter garden as I have proposed. In the summer season the 
whole country blooms, and is a kind of garden ; for which reason 
we are not so sensible of those beauties that at this time may 
be everywhere met with ; but when nature is in her desolation, 
and presents us with nothing but bleak and barren prospects, 
there is something unspeakably cheerful in a spot of ground 
which is covered with trees that smile amidst all the rigours of 
winter, and give us a view of the most gay season in the midst 
of that which is the most dead and melancholy. I have so far 
indulged myself in this thought that I have set apart a whole 
acre of ground for the executing of it. The walls are covered 
with ivy instead of vines. The laurel, the horn-beam, and the 
holly, with many other trees and plants of the same nature, 
grow so thick in it that you cannot imagine a more lively 
scene. The glowing redness of the berries with which they 
are hung at this time vies with the verdure of their leaves, 
and are apt to inspire the heart of the beholder with that 
vernal delight which you have somewhere taken notice of in 
your former papers. It is very pleasant, at the same time, to 
see the several kinds of birds retiring into this little green 
spot, and enjoying themselves among the branches and foliage, 
when my great garden, which I have before mentioned to 
you, does not afford a single leaf for their shelter. 

You must know. Sir, that I look upon the pleasure which 
we take in a garden as one of the most innocent delights in 
human life. A garden was the habitation of our first parents 
before the fall. It is naturally apt to fill the mind with calm- 
ness and tranquillity, and to lay all its turbulent passions at rest. 
It gives us a great insight into the contrivance and wisdom of 
Providence, and suggests innumerable subjects for meditation. 
I cannot but think the very complacency and satisfaction which 
a man takes in these works of nature to be a laudable, if not 
a virtuous, habit of mind. For all which reasons, I hope you 
will pardon the length of my present letter. 

^ r « , I am, Sir, etc. 

C [Addison] 



1 

i 



5^- 



(^-d^ttx^ 



TiY^ RAMBLER (1750-1752) 
Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) 

THE FOLLY OF ANTICIPATING MISFORTUNES 

No. 29. Tuesday, June 26, 1750 

Prudens futuri temporis exitum 
Caliginosa node premit deits, 

Ridetque si mortalis ultra 

Fas trepidet . — Hor. 

There is nothing recommended with greater frequency 
among the gayer poets of antiquity than the secure possession 
of the present hour, and the dismission of all the cares which 
intrude upon our quiet, or hinder, by importunate perturba- 
tions, the enjoyment of those delights which our condition 
happens to set before us. 

The ancient poets are, indeed, by no means unexception- 
able teachers of morality; their precepts are to be always 
considered as the sallies of a genius, intent rather upon giv- 
ing pleasure than instruction, eager to take every advantage 
of insinuation, and, provided the passions can be engaged on 
its side, very little solicitous about the suffrage of reason. 

The darkness and uncertainty through which the heathens 
were compelled to wander in the pursuit of happiness may, 
indeed, be alleged as an excuse for many of their seducing 
invitations to immediate enjoyment, which the moderns, by 
whom they have been imitated, have not to plead. It is no 
wonder that such as had no promise of another state should 
eagerly turn their thoughts upon the improvement of that 
which was before them ; but surely those who are acquainted 
with the hopes and fears of eternity, might think it necessary 

171 



1/2 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

to put some restraint upon their imagination, and reflect that 
by echoing the songs of the ancient bacchanals, and trans- 
mitting the maxims of past debauchery, they not only prove 
that they want invention, but virtue, and submit to the servility 
of imitation only to copy that of which the writer, if he was 
to live now, would often be ashamed. 

Yet as the errors and follies of a great genius are seldom 
without some radiations of understanding, by which meaner 
minds may be enlightened, the incitements to pleasure are, 
in those authors, generally mingled with such reflections upon 
life as well deserve to be considered distinctly from the pur- 
poses for which they are produced, and to be treasured up as 
the settled conclusions of extensive observation, acute sagacity, 
and mature experience. 

It is not without true judgment, that on these occasions 
they often warn their readers against inquiries into futurity, 
and solicitude about events which lie hid in causes yet un- 
active, and which time has not brought forward into the view 
of reason. An idle and thoughtless resignation to chance, 
without any struggle against calamity, or endeavour after ad- 
vantage, is indeed below the dignity of a reasonable being, 
in whose power Providence has put a great part even of his 
present happiness ; but it shows an equal ignorance of our 
proper sphere, to harass our thoughts with conjectures about 
things not yet in being. How can we regulate events of 
which we yet know not whether they will ever happen ? And 
why should we think, with painful anxiety, about that on which 
our thoughts can have no influence ? 

It is a maxim commonly received, that a wise man is never 
surprised ; and, perhaps, this exemption from astonishment 
may be imagined to proceed from such a prospect into futu- 
rity, as gave previous intimation of those evils which often fall 
unexpected upon others that have less foresight. But the truth 
is, that things to come, except when they approach very nearly, 
are equally hidden from men of all degrees of understanding ; 
and if a wise man is not amazed at sudden occurrences, it is 



THE RAMBLER 173 

not that he has thought more, but less upon futurity. He never 
considered things not yet existing as the proper objects of his 
attention ; he never indulged dreams till he was deceived by 
their phantoms, nor ever realized nonentities to his mind. He 
is not surprised because he is not disappointed, and he escapes 
disappointment because he never forms any expectations. 

The concern about things to come, that is so justly cen- 
sured, is not the result of those general reflections on the vari- 
ableness of fortune, the uncertainty of life, and the universal 
insecurity of all human acquisitions, which must always be 
suggested by the view of the world ; but such a desponding 
anticipation of misfortune, as fixes the mind upon scenes of 
gloom and melancholy, and makes fear predominate in every 
imagination. 

Anxiety of this kind is nearly of the same nature with jeal- 
ousy in love, and suspicion in the general commerce of life ; 
a temper which keeps the man always in alarms, disposes him 
to judge of every thing in a manner that least favours his own 
quiet, fills him with perpetual stratagems of counteraction, wears 
him out in schemes to obviate evils which never threatened him, 
and at length, perhaps, contributes to the production of those 
mischiefs of which it had raised such dreadful apprehensions. 

It has been usual in all ages for moralists to repress the 
swellings of vain hope, by representations of the innumerable 
casualties to which life is subject, and by instances of the 
unexpected defeat of the wisest schemes of policy, and sudden 
subversions of the highest eminences of greatness. It has, 
perhaps, not been equally observed, that all these examples 
afford the proper antidote to fear as well as to hope, and may 
be applied with no less efficacy as consolations to the timorous, 
than as restraints to the proud. 

1 1 Evil is uncertain in the same degree as good, and for the 
reason that we ought not to hope too securely, we ought not 
to fear with too much dejection.!) The state of the world is 
continually changing, and none can tell the result of the next 
vicissitude. Whatever is afloat in the stream of time, may. 



1/4 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

when it is very near us, be driven away by an accidental blast, 
which shall happen to cross the general course of the current. 
The sudden accidents by which the powerful are depressed 
may fall upon those whose malice we fear ; and the greatness 
by which we expect to be overborne may become another 
proof of the false flatteries of fortune. Our enemies may be- 
come weak, or we grow strong before our encounter, or we 
may advance against each other without ever meeting. There 
are, indeed, natural evils which we can flatter ourselves with 
no hopes of escaping, and with little of delaying ; but of the 
ills which are apprehended from human malignity, or the 
opposition of rival interests, we may always alleviate the terror 
by considering that our persecutors are weak and ignorant, 
and mortal like ourselves. 

The misfortunes which arise from the concurrence of un- 
happy incidents should never be suffered to disturb us before 
they happen ; because, if the breast be once laid open to the 
dread of mere possibilities of misery, life must be given a 
prey to dismal solicitude, and quiet must be lost forever. 

It is remarked by old Cornaro that it is absurd to be afraid 
of the natural dissolution of the body, because it must cer- 
tainly happen, and can, by no caution or artifice, be avoided. 
Whether this sentiment be entirely just, I shall not examine ; 
but certainly if it be improper to fear events which must 
happen, it is yet more evidently contrary to right reason to 
fear those which may never happen, and which, if they should 
come upon us, we cannot resist. 

As we ought not to give way to fear, any more than indul- 
gence to hope, because the objects both of fear and hope are 
yet uncertain, so we ought not to trust the representations of 
one more than of the other, because they are both equally fal- 
lacious ; as hope enlarges happiness, fear aggravates calamity. 
It is generally allowed, that no man ever found the happiness, 
of possession proportionate to that expectation which incited 
his desire, and invigorated his pursuit ; nor has any man found 
the evils of life so formidable in reality as they were described 



THE RAMBLER 175 

to him by his own imagination ; every species of distress 
brings with it some peculiar supports, some unforeseen means 
of resisting, or power of enduring. Taylor justly blames some 
pious persons, who indulge their fancies too much, set them- 
selves, by the force of imagination, in the place of the ancient 
martyrs and confessors, and question the validity of their 
own faith because they shrink at the thoughts of flames and 
tortures. ''It is," says he, '' sufficient that you are able to 
encounter the temptations which now assault you ; when God 
sends trials, he may send strength." 

All fear is in itself painful ; and when it conduces not to 
safety is painful without use. Every consideration, therefore, 
by which groundless terrors may be removed, adds something 
to human happiness. It is likewise not unworthy of remark, 
that in proportion as our cares are employed upon the future 
they are abstracted from the present, from the only time which 
we can call our own, and of which if we neglect the apparent 
duties, to make provision against visionary attacks, we shall 
certainly counteract our own purpose ; for he, doubtless, mis- 
takes his true interest, who thinks that he can increase his 
safety when he impairs his virtue. 

THE MISERY OF A FASHIONABLE LADY IN 
THE COUNTRY 

No. 42. Saturday, August 11, 1750 

Mihi tarda flimnt ingrafaqite tempora. — Hor. 

To THE Rambler 
Mr. Rambler, 

I am no great admirer of grave writings, and therefore 
very frequently lay your papers aside before I have read them 
through ; yet I cannot but confess that, by slow degrees, you 
have raised my opinion of your understanding, and that, though 
I believe it will be long before I can be prevailed upon to re- 
gard you with much kindness, you have, however, more of my 



176 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

esteem than those whom I sometimes make happy with oppor- 
tunities to fill my tea-pot, or pick up my fan. I shall therefore 
choose you for the confident of my distresses, and ask your 
counsel with regard to the means of conquering or escaping 
them, though I never expect from you any of that softness and 
pliancy which constitutes the perfection of a companion for 
the ladies : as, in the place where I now am, I have recourse 
to the mastiff for protection, though I have no intention of 
making him a lapdog. 

My mamma is a very fine lady, who has more numerous and 
more frequent assemblies at our house than any other person 
in the same quarter of the town. I was bred from my earliest 
infancy to a perpetual tumult of pleasure, and remember to 
have heard of little else than messages, visits, playhouses, and 
balls ; of the awkwardness of one woman, and the coquetry of 
another ; the charming convenience of some rising fashion, the 
difficulty of playing a new game, the incidents of a masquer- 
ade, and the dresses of a court-night. I knew before I was 
ten years old all the rules of paying and receiving visits, and 
to how much civility every one of my acquaintance was entitled : 
and was able to return, with the proper degree of reserve or 
vivacity, the stated and established answer to every compliment ; 
so that I was very soon celebrated as a wit and a beauty, and 
had heard before I was thirteen all that is ever said to a young 
lady. My mother was generous to so uncommon a degree as 
to be pleased with my advance into life, and allowed me, with- 
out envy or reproof, to enjoy the same happiness with herself ; 
though most women about her own age were very angry to 
see young girls so forward, and many fine gentlemen told her 
how cruel it was to throw new claims upon mankind, and to 
tyrannize over them at the same time with her own charms 
and those of her daughter. 

I have now lived two-and-twenty years, and have passed of 
each year nine months in town, and three at Richmond ; so 
that my time has been spent uniformly in the same company 
and the same amusements, except as fashion has introduced 



THE RAMBLER 177 

new diversions, or the revolutions of the gay world have af- 
forded new successions of wits and beaux. However, my mother 
is so good an economist of pleasure that I have no spare hours 
upon my hands ; for every morning brings some new appoint- 
ment, and every night is hurried away by the necessity of mak- 
ing our appearance at different places, and of being with one 
lady at the opera, and with another at the card-table. 

When the time came of settling our scheme of felicity for 
'the summer, it was determined that I should pay a visit to a 
rich aunt in a remote county. As you know, the chief conver- 
sation of all tea-tables, in the spring, arises from a communi- 
cation of the manner in which time is to be passed till winter, 
it was a great relief to the barrenness of our topics to relate 
the pleasures that were in store for me, to describe my uncle's 
seat, with the park and gardens, the charming walks and beau- 
tiful waterfalls ; and everyone told me how much she envied 
me, and what satisfaction she had once enjoyed in a situation 
of the same kind. 

As we are all credulous in our own favour, and willing to 
imagine some latent satisfaction in any thing which we have 
not experienced, I will confess to you, without restraint, that 
I had suffered my head to be filled with expectations of some 
nameless pleasure in a rural life, and that I hoped for the 
happy hour that should set me free from noise, and flutter, 
and ceremony, dismiss me to the peaceful shade, and lull me 
in content and tranquillity. To solace myself under the misery 
of delay, I sometimes heard a studious lady of my -acquaintance 
read pastorals, I was delighted with scarce any talk but of 
leaving the town, and never went to bed without dreaming of 
groves, and meadows, and frisking lambs. 

At length I had all my clothes in a trunk, and saw the coach 
at the door ; I sprung in with ecstasy, quarreled with my maid 
for being too long in taking leave of the other servants, and 
rejoiced as the ground grew less which lay between me and the 
completion of my wishes. A few days brought me to a large 
old house, encompassed on three sides with woody hills, and 



1/8 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

looking from the front on a gentle river, the sight of which 
renewed all my expectations of pleasure, and gave me some 
regret for having lived so long without the enjoyment which 
these delightful scenes were now to afford me. My aunt came 
out to receive me, but in a dress so far removed from the pres- 
ent fashion that I could scarcely look upon her without laughter, 
which would have been no kind requital for the trouble which 
she had taken to make herself fine against my arrival. The 
night and the next morning were driven along with inquiries 
about our family ; my aunt then explained our pedigree, and 
told me stories of my great grandfather's bravery in the civil 
wars ; nor was it less than three days before I could persuade 
her to leave me to myself. 

At last economy prevailed ; she went in the usual manner 
about her own affairs, and I was at liberty to range in the wil- 
derness, and sit by the cascade. The novelty of the objects 
about me pleased me for a while, but after a few days they 
were new no longer, and I soon began to perceive that the 
country was not my element ; that shades, and flowers, and 
lawns, and waters had very soon exhausted all their power of 
pleasing, and that I had not in myself any fund of satisfaction 
with which I could supply the loss of my customary amusements. 

I unhappily told my aunt, in the first warmth of our em- 
braces, that I had leave to stay with her ten weeks. Six only 
are yet gone, and how shall I live through the remaining four } 
I go out and return ; I pluck a flower, and throw it away ; I 
catch an insect, and when I have examined its colours, set it at 
liberty ; I fling a pebble into the water, and see one circle spread 
after another. When it chances to rain I walk in the great hall, 
and watch the minute-hand upon the dial, or play with a litter of 
kittens which the cat happens to have brought in a lucky time. 

My aunt is afraid I shall grow melancholy, and therefore 
encourages the neighbouring gentry to visit us. They came at 
first with great eagerness to see the fine lady from London, 
but when we met we had no common topic on which we could 
converse ; they had no curiosity after plays, operas, or music ; 



THE RAMBLER 179 

and I find as little satisfaction from their accounts of the quar- 
rels or alliances of families, whose names, when once I can 
escape, I shall never hear. The women have now seen me, 
know how my gown is made, and are satisfied ; the men are 
generally afraid of me, and say little, because they think them- 
selves not at liberty to talk rudely. 

Thus am I condemned to solitude ; the day moves slowly 
forward, and I see the dawn with uneasiness, because I con- 
sider that night is at a great distance. I have tried to sleep 
by a brook, but find its murmurs ineffectual ; so that I am 
forced to be awake at least twelve hours, without visits, without 
cards, without laughter, and without flattery. I walk because I 
am disgusted with sitting still, and sit down because I am weary 
with walking. I have no motive to action, nor any object of 
love, or hate, or fear, or inclination. I cannot dress with spirit, 
for I have neither rival nor admirer. I cannot dance without 
a partner, nor be kind, or cruel, without a lover. 

Such is the life of Euphelia, and such it is likely to continue 
for a month to come. I have not yet declared against existence, 
nor called upon the destinies to cut my thread ; but I have sin- 
cerely resolved not to condemn myself to such another summer, 
nor too hastily to flatter myself with happiness. Yet I have 
heard, Mr. Rambler, of those who never thought themselves 
so much at ease as in solitude, and cannot but suspect it to be 
some way or other my own fault, that, wdthout great pain, either 
of mind or body, I am thus weary of myself : that the current 
of youth stagnates, and that I am languishing in a dead calm 
for want of some external impulse. I shall therefore think you 
a benefactor to our sex, if you will teach me the art of living 
alone ; for I am confident that a thousand and a thousand 
and a thousand ladies, who affect to talk with ecstasies of the 
pleasures of the country, are, in reality, like me, longing for 
the winter, and wishing to be delivered from themselves by 
company and diversion. 

I am, Sir, yours, 

Euphelia. 



777^ CITIZEN OF THE WORLD (1760-1761) 

Oliver Goldsmith (17 28-1774) 

THE CHINESE PHILOSOPHER IN ENGLAND 

Letter I 

To Mr. * * * *^ Merchant in London 

Amsterdam 
Sir, 

Yours of the 1 3th instant, covering two bills, one on Messrs. 
R. and D., value ;^478,ioj'., and the other on Mr. * * * *, 
value ^285, duly came to hand, the former of which met with 
honour, but the other has been trifled with, and I am afraid 
will be returned protested. 

The bearer of this is my friend, therefore let him be yours. 
He is a native of Honan in China, and one who did me signal 
services when he was a mandarine, and I a factor at Canton. 
By frequently conversing with the English there, he has learned 
the language, though he is entirely a stranger to their manners 
and customs. I am told he is a philosopher, I am sure he is 
an honest man ; that to you will be his best recommendation, 
next to the consideration of his being the friend of. Sir, 

Yours, &c. 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND 

Letter II 

Lo7id. From Lien Chi Altangi /^ * * * =*, Merchant in Amsterdam 

Friend of my Heart, 

May the wings of peace rest upon thy dwelling, and the 
shield of conscience preserve thee from vice and misery : for 

180 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD iSi 

all th)" favours accept my gratitude and esteem, the only trib- 
utes a poor philosophic wanderer can return ; sure fortune is 
resolved to make me unhappy, when she gives others a power 
of testifying their friendship by actions, and leaves me only 
words to express the sincerity of mine. 

I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with which you en- 
deavour to lessen your own merit and my obligations. By call- 
ing your late instances of friendship only a return for former 
favours, you would induce me to impute to your justice what I 
owe to your generosity. 

The services I did you at Canton, justice, humanity, and my 
office bade me perform ; those you have done me since my 
arrival at Amsterdam, no laws obliged you to, no justice re- 
quired, even half your favours would have been greater than 
my most sanguine expectations. 

The sum of money therefore which you privately conveyed 
into my baggage, when I was leaving Holland, and which I 
was ignorant of till my arrival in London, I must beg leave to 
return. You have been bred a merchant, and I a scholar ; you 
consequently love money better than I. You can find pleasure 
in superfluity, I am perfectly content with what is sufficient.; 
take therefore what is yours, it may give you some pleasure, 
even though you have no occasion to use it ; my happiness it 
cannot improve, for I have already all that I want. 

My passage by sea from Rotterdam to England was more 
painful to me than all the journies I ever made on land. I have 
traversed the immeasurable wilds of Mogul Tartary ; felt all the 
rigours of Siberian skies ; I have had my repose an hundred 
times disturbed by invading savages, and have seen without 
shrinking the desert sands rise like a troubled ocean all around 
me ; against these calamities I was armed with resolution ; but 
in my passage to England, though nothing occurred that gave 
the mariners any uneasiness, to one who was never at sea be- 
fore, all was a subject of astonishment and terror. To find the 
land disappear, to see our ship mount the waves swift as an 
arrow from the Tartar bow, to hear the wind howling through 



1 82 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

the cordage, to feel a sickness which depresses even the spirits of 
the brave ; these were unexpected distresses, and consequently 
assaulted me unprepared to receive them. 

You men of Europe think nothing of a voyage by sea. .With 
us of China, a man who has been from sight of land is regarded 
upon his return with admiration. I have known some provinces 
w^here there is not even a name for the ocean. What a strange 
people therefore am I got amongst, who have founded an 
empire on this unstable element, who build cities upon billows 
that rise higher than the mountains of Tipartala, and make 
the deep more formidable than the wildest tempest. 

Such accounts as these, I must confess, were my first motives 
for seeing England. These induced me to undertake a journey 
of seven hundred painful days, in order to examine its opu- 
lence, buildings, arts, sciences, and manufactures on the spot. 
Judge then my disappointment on entering London, to see no 
signs of that opulence so much talked of abroad ; wherever I 
turn, I am presented with a gloomy solemnity in the houses, 
the streets, and the inhabitants ; none of that beautiful gilding 
which makes a principal ornament in Chinese architecture. The 
streets of Nankin are sometimes strewed with gold leaf ; very 
different are those of London : in the midst of their pavements, 
a great lazy puddle moves muddily along ; heavy laden machines 
with wheels of unwieldy thickness crowd up every passage ; so 
that a stranger, instead of finding time for observation, is often 
happy if he has time to escape from being crushed to pieces. 

The houses borrow very few ornaments from architecture ; 
their chief decoration seems to be a paltry piece of painting, 
hung out at their doors or windows, at once a proof of their 
indigence and vanity. Their vanity, in each having one of those 
pictures exposed to public view ; and their indigence, in being 
unable to get them better painted. In this respect, the fancy of 
their painters is also deplorable. Could you believe it ? I have 
seen five black lions and three blue boars in less than the circuit 
of half a mile ; and yet you know that animals of these colours are 
no where to be found except in the wild imaginations of Europe. 



THE CITIZEN OE THE WORLD 183 

From these circumstances in their buildings, and from the 
dismal looks of the inhabitants, I am induced to conclude that 
the nation is actually poor ; and that like the Persians, they 
make a splendid figure every where but at home. The proverb 
of Xixofou is, that a man's riches may be seen in his eyes ; 
if we judge of the English by this rule, there is not a poorer 
nation under the sun. 

I have been here but two days, so will not be hasty in my 
decisions ; such letters as I shall write to Fipsihi in Moscow, 
I beg you '11 endeavour to forward with all diligence ; I shall 
send them open, in order that you may take copies or trans- 
lations, as you are equally versed in the Dutch and Chinese 
languages. Dear friend, think of my absence with regret, as 
I sincerely regret yours ; even while I write, I lament our 
separation. Farewell. 

NATIONAL CHARACTERISTICS 

Letter IV 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to the care of Fipsihi^ resident in Moscow ; to 

be forwarded by the Russian cara'va?i to Fnni Hoa?n, frst President 

of the Ceremonial Acade?fiy at Peki?i in China 

The English seem as silent as the Japanese, yet vainer than 
the inhabitants of Siam. Upon my arrival I attributed that 
reserve to modesty, which I now find has its origin in pride. 
Condescend to address them first, and you are sure of their 
acquaintance ; stoop to flattery, and you conciliate their friend- 
ship and esteem. They bear hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the 
miseries of life without shrinking ; danger only calls forth their 
fortitude ; they even exult in calamity ; but contempt is what 
they cannot bear. An Englishman fears contempt more than 
death ; he often flies to death as a refuge from its pressure ; 
and dies when he fancies the world has ceased to esteem him. 

Pride seems the source not only of their national vices, but 
of their national virtues also. An Englishman is taught to 



1 84 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

love his king as his friend, but to acknowledge no other master 
than the laws w^hich himself has contributed to enact. He 
despises those nations, who, that one may be free, are all con- 
tent to be slaves ; who first lift a tyrant into terror, and then 
shrink under his power as if delegated from heaven. Libert}- 
is echoed in all their assemblies, and thousands might be found 
ready to offer up their lives for the sound, though perhaps not 
one of all the number understands its meaning. The lowest 
mechanic however looks upon it as his duty to be a watchful 
guardian of his country's freedom, and often uses a language 
that might seem haughty, even in the mouth of the great 
emperor who traces his ancestry to the moon. 

A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, I could 
not avoid stopping, in order to listen to a dialogue which I 
thought might afford me some entertainment. The conversa- 
tion was carried on between a debtor through the grate of his 
prison, a porter, who had stopped to rest his burden, and a 
soldier at the window. The subject was upon a threatened 
invasion from France, and each seemed extremely anxious 
to rescue his country from the impending danger. " For my 
part," cries the prisoner, "the greatest of my apprehensions is 
for our freedom ; if the French should conquer, what would 
become of English liberty ? My dear friends, liberty is the 
Englishman's prerogative ; we must preserve that at the ex- 
pense of our lives, of that the French shall never deprive us ; 
it is not to be expected that men who are slaves themselves 
would preserve our freedom should they happen to conquer." 
"Ay, slaves," cries the porter, "they are all slaves, fit only 
to carry burdens every one of them. Before I would stoop to 
slavery, may this be my poison (and he held the goblet in his 
hand) may this be my poison — but I would sooner list for 
a soldier." 

The soldier taking the goblet from his friend, with much 
awe fervently cried out, "It is not so much our liberties as 
our religion that would suffer by such a change. Ay, our re- 
ligion, my lads. May the Devil sink me into flames (such was 



THE CITIZEN OE THE WORLD 185 

the solemnity of his adjuration), if the French should come over, 
but our religion would be utterly undone." So saying, instead 
of a libation, he applied the goblet to his lips, and confirmed 
his sentiments with a ceremony of the most persevering 
devotion. 

In short, every man here pretends to be a politician ; even 
the fair sex are sometimes found to mix the severity of national 
altercation with the blandishments of love, and often become 
conquerors by more weapons of destruction than their eyes. 

This universal passion for politics is gratified by Daily 
Gazettes, as with us at China. But, as in ours the emperor 
endeavours to instruct his people, in theirs the people endeav- 
our to instruct the administration. You must not, however, 
imagine that they who compile these papers have any actual 
knowledge of the politics, or the government of a state ; they 
only collect their materials from the oracle of some coffee-house, 
which oracle has himself gathered them the night before from 
a beau at a gaming-table, who has pillaged his knowledge 
from a great man's porter, who has had his information from 
the great man's gentleman, who has invented the whole story 
for his own amusement the night preceding. 

The English in general seem fonder of gaining the esteem 
than the love of those they converse with : this gives a for- 
mality to their amusements ; their gayest conversations have 
something too wise for innocent relaxation ; though in com- 
pany you are seldom disgusted with the absurdity of a fool, 
you are seldom lifted into rapture by those strokes of vivacity 
which give instant, though not permanent pleasure. 

What they want, however, in gaiety, they make up in polite- 
ness. You smile at hearing me praise the English for their 
politeness : you who have heard very different accounts from 
the missionaries at Pekin, who have seen such a different be- 
haviour in their merchants and seamen at home. But I must 
still repeat it, the English seem more polite than any of their 
neighbours ; their great art in this respect lies in endeavouring, 
while they oblige, to lessen the force of the favour. Other 



1 86 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

countries are fond of obliging a stranger ; but seem desirous 
that he should be sensible of the obligation. The English 
confer their kindness with an appearance of indifference, and 
give away benefits with an air as if they despised them. 

Walking a few days ago between an English and French- 
man into the suburbs of the city, we were overtaken by a heavy 
shower of rain. I was unprepared ; but they had each large 
coats, which defended them from what seemed to me a per- 
fect inundation. The Englishman seeing me shrink from the 
weather, accosted me thus : " Psha, man, what dost shrink 
at ? Here, take this coat ; I don't want it ; I find it no way 
useful to me ; I had as lief be without it." The Frenchman 
began to shew his politeness in turn. " My dear friend," cries 
he, "why won't you oblige me by making use of my coat; 
you see how well it defends me from the rain ; I should not 
choose to part with it to others, but to such a friend as you, 
I could even part with my skin to do him service." 

From such minute instances as these, most reverend Fum 
Hoam, I am sensible your sagacity will collect instruction. 
The volume of nature is the book of knowledge ; and he 
becomes most wise who makes the most judicious selection. 
Farewell. 



THE CHARACTER OF BEAU TIBBS 

Letter LIV 

From Lien Chi Alfangi, to Finn Hoam^ first President of the Cere- 
77io7iial Acade?ny at Fekin^ in China 

Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay company, 
and take every opportunity of thus dismissing the mind from 
duty. From this motive I am often found in the centre of a 
crowd ; and wherever pleasure is to be sold, am always a pur- 
chaser. In those places, without being remarked by any, I 
join in whatever goes forward, work my passions into a sirnili- 
tude of frivolous earnestness, shout as they shout, and condemn 



THE CITIZEN OE THE WORLD 187 

as they happen to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for a while 
below its natural standard is qualified for stronger flights, as 
those first retire who would spring forward with greater vigour. 

Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my friend and I 
lately went to gaze upon the company in one of the public 
walks near the city. Here we sauntered together for some 
time, either praising the beauty of such as were handsome, or 
the dresses of such as had nothing else to recommend them. 
We had gone thus deliberately forward for some time, when 
stopping on a sudden, my friend caught me by the elbow, and 
led me out of the public walk ; I could perceive by the quick- 
ness of his pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that he 
was attempting to avoid somebody who followed ; we now turned 
to the right, then to the left ; as we went forward he still 
went faster, but in vain ; the person whom he attempted to 
escape hunted us through every doubling, and gained upon 
us each moment ; so that at last we fairly stood still, resolving 
to face what we could not avoid. 

Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the famil- 
iarity of an old acquaintance. '' My dear Drybone," cries he, 
shaking my friend's hand, '' where have you been hiding this 
half a century .? Positively I had fancied you were gone down 
to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the country." During 
the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the appearance of 
our new companion ; his hat was pinched up with peculiar 
smartness ; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp ; round his neck 
he wore a broad black ribbon, and in his bosom a buckle studded 
with glass ; his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist ; he wore 
by his side a sword with a black hilt, and his stockings of silk, 
though newly washed, were grown yellow by long service. I was 
so much engaged with the peculiarity of his dress that I at- 
tended only to the latter part of my friend's reply, in which he 
complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of his clothes, and the 
bloom in his countenance : '' Psha, psha, Will," cried the fig- 
ure, '' no more of that if you love me, you know I hate flattery, 
on my soul I do ; and yet to be sure an intimacy with the great 



1 88 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

will improve one's appearance, and a course of venison will 
fatten ; and yet faith I despise the great as much as you do ; 
but there are a great many damn'd honest fellows among them ; 
and we must not quarrel with one half, because the other wants 
weeding. If they were all such as my Lord Muddler, one of 
the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I 
should myself be among the number of their admirers. I was 
yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's, my lord was 
there. ' Ned,' says he to me, ' Ned,' says he, ' I '11 hold gold to 
silver I can tell where you were poaching last night.' ' Poach- 
ing, my lord,' says I; 'faith you have missed already; for I 
staid at home, and let the girls poach for me. That 's my 
way ; I take a fine woman as some animals do their prey ; 
stand still, and swoop, they fall into my mouth.' " 

"Ah, Tibbs, thou art an happy fellow," cried my companion, 
with looks of infinite pity, " I hope your fortune is as much 
improved as your understanding in such company .? " " Im- 
proved," replied the other; "You shall know, — but let it go 
no further, — a great secret — five hundred a year to begin 
with. — My lord's word of honour for it — His lordship took 
me down in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a tete-a-tete 
dinner in the country ; where we talked of nothing else." " I 
fancy you forget, sir," cried I, "you told us but this moment 
of your dining yesterday in town ! " " Did I say so," replied 
he coolly, "to be sure if I said so it was so — dined in town ; 
egad now I do remember, I did dine in town ; but I dined in 
the country too ; for you must know, my boys, I eat two din- 
ners. By the bye, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eat- 
ing. I '11 tell )'0u a pleasant affair about that : We were a select 
party of us to dine at Lady Grogram's, an affected piece, but 
let it go no further ; a secret : well, there happened to be no 
asafoetida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which, says I, I '11 
hold a thousand guineas, and say done first, that — But, dear 
Drybone, you are an honest creature, lend me half-a-crown for 
a minute or two, or so, just till — But hearkee, ask me for it 
the next time we meet, or it may be twenty to one but I forget 
to pay you." 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD 189 

When he left us, our conversation naturally turned upon so 
extraordinary a character. "His very dress," cries my friend, 
" is not less extraordinary than his conduct. If you meet him 
this day you find him in rags, if the next in embroidery. With 
those persons of distinction, of whom he talks so familiarly, 
he has scarcely a coffee-house acquaintance. However, both 
for the interests of society, and perhaps for his own, heaven 
has made him poor, and while all the world perceive his wants, 
he fancies them concealed from every eye. An agreeable com- 
panion because he understands flattery, and all must be pleased 
with the first part of his conversation, though all are sure of its 
ending with a demand on their purse. While his youth counte- 
nances the levity of his conduct, he may thus earn a precarious 
subsistence, but when age comes on, the gravity of which is in- 
compatible with buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken 
by all. Condemned in the decline of life to hang upon some 
rich family whom he once despised, there to undergo all the 
ingenuity of studied contempt, to be employed only as a spy 
upon the servants, or a bugbear to frighten the children into 
obedience." Adieu. 



THE CHARACTER OF BEAU TIBBS (Continued) 

Jj.v.l'^ "f To the same 

I am apt to fancy I have contracted a new acquaintance whom 
it will be no easy matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday 
overtook me again in one of the public walks, and slapping me 
on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most perfect 
familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, except that he 
had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, a pair of 
temple spectacles, and his hat under his arm. 

As I knew him to be an harmless amusing little thing, 1 
could not return his smiles with any degree of severity ; so we 
walked forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few 
minutes discussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular 
conversation. 



IQO THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began 
to appear ; he bowed to several well-dressed persons, who, by 
their manner of returning the compliment, appeared perfect 
strangers. At intervals he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to 
take memorandums before all the company, with much im- 
portance and assiduity. In this manner he led me through 
the length of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and 
fancying myself laughed at not less than him by every spectator. 

When we were got to the end of our procession, ''Blast me," 
cries he, with an air of vivacity, "I never saw the park so thin 
in my life before ; there 's no company at all to-day. Not a 
single face to be seen." " No company," interrupted I pee- 
vishly ; "no company where there is such a crowd ; why man, 
there 's too much. What are the thousands that have been 
laughing at us but company ! " " Lard, my dear," returned he, 
with the utmost good-humour, "you seem immensely chagrined; 
but blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at all the 
world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash the 
Creolian, and I, sometimes make a party at being ridiculous ; 
and so we say and do a thousand things for the joke sake. 
But I see you are grave, and if you are for a fine grave senti- 
mental companion, you shall dine with me and my wife to-day, 
I must insist on 't ; I '11 introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady 
of as elegant qualifications as any in nature ; she was bred, but 
that 's between ourselves, under the inspection of the Countess 
of All-night. A charming body of voice, but no more of that, 
she will give us a song. You shall see my little girl too, Caro- 
lina Wilhelma Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty creature ; I design 
her for my Lord Drumstick's eldest son, but that 's in friend- 
ship, let it go no further ; she 's but six years old, and yet she 
walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar immensely already. I 
intend she shall be as perfect as possible in every accomplish- 
ment. In the first place I '11 make her a scholar ; I '11 teach 
her Greek myself, and learn that language purposely to instruct 
her ; but let that be a secret." 

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD 191 

arm, and hauled me along. We passed through many dark 
alleys and winding ways ; for, from some motives to me un- 
known, he seemed to have a particular aversion to every fre- 
quented street ; at last, however, we got to the door of a dismal 
looking house in the outlets of the town, where he informed 
me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air. 

We entered the lower door, which ever seemed to lie most 
hospitably open ; and I began to ascend an old and creaking 
stair-case, when, as he mounted to show me the way, he de- 
manded, whether I delighted in prospects, to which answering 
in the affirmative, ''Then," says he, "I shall show you one of 
the most charming in the world out of my windows ; we shall 
see the ships sailing, and the whole country for twenty miles 
round, tip top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten 
thousand guineas for such a one ; but as I sometimes pleasantly 
tell him, I always love to keep my prospects at home, that my 
friends may see me the oftener." 

By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would 
permit us to ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously 
pleased to call the first floor down the chimney ; and knocking 
at the door, a voice from within demanded, who 's there ? My 
conductor answered that it was him. But this not satisfying 
the querist, the voice again repeated the demand : to which he 
answered louder than before ; and now the door was opened 
by an old woman with cautious reluctance. 

When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with 
great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, asked where 
was her lady ? " Good troth," replied she, in a peculiar dialect, 
" she 's washing your two shirts at the next door, because they 
have taken an oath against lending out the tub any longer." 
'' My two shirts," cries he in a tone that faltered with confu- 
sion, '' what does the idiot mean ! " ''I ken what I mean well 
enough," replied the other, '' she 's washing your twa shirts at 

the next door, because " '' Fire and fury, no more of thy 

stupid explanations," cried he, — ''Go and inform her we have 
got company. Were that Scotch hag to be for ever in the 



192 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd 
poisonous accent of hers, or testify the sniallest specimen of 
breeding or high life ; and yet it is very surprising too, as I 
had her from a parliament-man, a friend of mine, from the 
highlands, one of the politest men in the world ; but that 's 
a secret." 

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs's arrival, during which 
interval I had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and 
all its furniture ; which consisted of four chairs with old wrought 
bottoms, that he assured me were his wife's embroidery; a square 
table that had been once japanned, a cradle in one corner, a 
lumbering cabinet in the other ; a broken shepherdess, and a 
mandarine without a head were stuck over the chimney ; and 
round the walls several paltry, unframed pictures, which he ob- 
served were all his own drawing : " What do you think, sir, of 
that head in a corner, done in the manner of Grisoni } There 's 
the true keeping in it; it's my own face, and though there 
happens to be no likeness, a countess offered me an hundred 
for its fellow ; I refused her, for, hang it, that would be 
mechanical, you know." 

The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and 
a coquette ; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of 
beauty. She made twenty apologies for being seen in such 
odious dishabille, but hoped to be excused, as she had staid 
out all night at the gardens with the countess, who was exces- 
sively fond of the "horns." "And, indeed, my dear," added 
she, turning to her husband, " his lordship drank your health 
in a bumper." "Poor Jack," cries he, "a dear good-natured 
creature, I know he loves me ; but I hope, my dear, you have 
given orders for dinner ; you need make no great preparations 
neither, there are but three of us, something elegant, and little 

will do; a turbot, an ortolan, or a " "Or what do you 

think, my dear," interrupts the wife, " of a nice pretty bit of 
ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce 

" "The very thing," replies he, "it will eat best with 

some smart bottled beer ; but be sure to let 's have the sauce 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WO RID 193 

his grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat, 
that is country all over ; extreme disgusting to those who are 
in the least acquainted with high life." 

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to 
increase ; the company of fools may at first make us smile, but 
at last never fails of rendering us melancholy ; I therefore pre- 
tended to recollect a prior engagement, and after having shown 
my respect to the house, according to the fashion of the Eng- 
lish, by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, 
I took my leave ; Mr. Tibbs assuring me that dinner, if I staid, 
would be ready at least in less than two hours. 

vVji A VISIT TO A LONDON SILK MERCHANT 
V Letter LXXVII 

f From lien Chi Altangt, to Fum Hoam, first President of the 

Ceremonial Academy^ at Pekin^ in China 

The shops of London are as well furnished as those of 
Pekin. Those of London have a picture hung at their door, 
informing the passengers what they have to sell, as those at 
Pekin have a board to assure the buyer that they have no 
intentions to cheat him. 

I was this morning to buy silk for a night-cap ; immediately 
upon entering the mercer's shop, the master and his two men, 
with wigs plastered with powder, appeared to ask my commands. 
They were certainly the civilest people alive; if I but looked, 
they flew to the place where I cast my eye ; every motion of 
mine sent them running round the whole shop for my satis- 
faction. I informed them that I wanted what was good, and 
they showed me not less than forty pieces, and each was better 
than the former ; the prettiest pattern in nature, and the fit- 
test in the world for night-caps. " My very good friend," said 
I to the mercer, "" you must not pretend to instruct me in silks, 
I know these in particular to be no better than your mere 
flimsy Bungees." "That may be," cried the mercer, who I 



194 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

afterwards found had never contradicted a man in his Hfe, 
'' I can't pretend to say but they may ; but I can assure you, 
my Lady Trail has had a sacque from this piece this very 
morning." '' But friend," said I, '' though my lady has chosen 
a sacque from it, I see no necessity that I should wear it for 
a night-cap." ''That may be," returned he again, "yet what 
becomes a pretty lady, will at any time look well on a hand- 
some gentleman." This short compliment was thrown in so 
very seasonably upon my ugly face, that even though I disliked 
the silk, I desired him to cut me off the pattern of a night-cap. 

While this business was consigned to his journeyman, the 
master himself took down some pieces of silk still finer than 
any I had yet seen, and spreading them before me, '' There," 
cries he, '' there 's beauty, my Lord Snakeskin has bespoke the 
fellow to this for the birth-night this very morning ; it would 
look charmingly in waistcoats." '" But I don't want a waist- 
coat," replied I. '' Not want a waistcoat," returned the mercer, 
' ' then I would advise you to buy one ; when waistcoats are 
wanted, you may depend upon it they will come dear. Always 
buy before you want, and you are sure to be well used, as they 
say in Cheapside." There was so much justice in his advice, 
that I could not refuse taking it ; besides, the silk, which was 
really a good one, increased the temptation, so I gave orders 
for that too. 

As I was waiting to have my bargains measured and cut, 
which, I know not how, they executed but slowly ; during the 
interval, the mercer entertained me with the modern manner 
of some of the nobility receiving company in their morning 
gowns. ''Perhaps, sir," adds he, "you have a mind to see 
what kind of silk is universally worn." Without waiting for 
my reply, he spreads a piece before me, which might be reck- 
oned beautiful even in China. " If the nobility," continues he, 
"were to know I sold this to any under a Right Honourable, 
I should certainly lose their custom ; you see, my Lord, it is 
at once rich, tasty, and quite the thing." " I am no Lord," 
interrupted I. — "I beg pardon," cried he, "but be pleased 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD 195 

to remember, when you intend buying a morning gown, that 
you had an offer from me of something worth money. Con- 
science, sir, conscience is my way of deaUng ; you may buy 
a morning gown now, or you may stay till they become dearer 
and less fashionable, but it is not my business to advise." In 
short, most reverend Fum, he persuaded me to buy a morning 
gown also, and would probably have persuaded me to have 
bought half the goods in his shop, if I had stayed long enough, 
or was furnished with sufficient money. 

Upon returning home, I could not help reflecting with some 
astonishment, how this very man with such a confined educa- 
tion and capacity, was yet capable of turning me as he thought 
proper, and moulding me to his inclinations! I knew he was 
only answering his own purposes, even while he attempted to 
appear solicitous about mine ; yet by a voluntary infatuation, 
a sort of passion compounded of vanity and good nature, I 
walked into the snare with my eyes open, and put myself to 
future pain in order to give him immediate pleasure. ^ The wis- 
dom of the ignorant somewhat resembles the instinct of ani- 
mals ; it is diffused in but a very narrow sphere, but within 
that circle it acts with vigour, uniformity, and success. Adieu. 



CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834) 



A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF 

MARRIED PEOPLE 

Reflector ^o. \, 1811-1812; London Magazine, September, 1822 

As a single man, I have spent a good deal of my time in 
noting down the infirmities of Married People, to console 
myself for those superior pleasures, which they tell me I have 
lost by remaining as I am. 

I cannot say that the quarrels of men and their wives ever 
made any great impression upon me, or had much tendency to 
strengthen me in those anti-social resolutions, which I took up 
long ago upon more substantial considerations. What oftenest 
offends me at the houses of married persons where I visit, is 
an error of quite a different description ; — it is that they are 
too loving. 

Not too loving neither : that does not explain my meaning. 
Besides, why should that offend me } The very act of sepa- 
rating themselves from the rest of the world, to have the fuller 
enjoyment of each other's society, implies that they prefer one 
another to all the world. 

*YBut what I complain of is that they carry this preference 
so undisguisedly, they perk it up in the faces of us single 
people so shamelessly, you cannot be in their company a mo- 
ment without being made to feel, by some indirect hint or open 
avowal, that you are not the object of this preference. Now 
there are some things which give no offence, while implied or 
taken for granted merely ; but expressed, there is much offence 
in them. If a man were to accost the. first homely-featured or 
plain-dressed young woman of his acquaintance, and tell her 
bluntly, that she was not handsome or rich enough for him, 

196 




CHARLES LAMB 197 

and he could not marry her, he would deserve to be kicked for 
his ill manners ; yet no less is implied in the fact that having 
access and opportunity of putting the question to her, he has 
never yet thought fit to do it. The young woman understands 
this as clearly as if it were put into words ; but no reasonable 
young woman would think of making this a ground of a quar- 
rel. Just as little right have a married couple to tell me by 
speeches and looks that are scarce less plain than speeches, that 
I am not the happy man, — the lady's choice. It is enough 
that I know that I am not : I do not want this perpetual 
reminding. 

The display of superior knowledge or riches may be made 
sufficiently mortifying ; but these admit of a palliative. The 
knowledge which is brought out to insult me mayHaccidentally 
improve me ; and in the rich man's houses and pictures, his 
parks and gardens, I have a temporary usufruct at least. But 
the display of married happiness has none of these palliatives : 
it is throughout pure, unrecompensed, unqualified insult. 

Marriage by its best title is a monopoly, and not of the least 
invidious sort. It is the cunning of most possessors of any 
exclusive privilege to keep their advantage as much out of sight 
as possible, that their less favoured neighbours, seeing little of 
the benefit, may the less be disposed to question the right. 
But these married monopolists thrust the most obnoxious part 
of their patent into our faces. 

Nothing is to me more distasteful than that entire compla- 
cency and satisfaction which beam in the countenances of a 
new-married couple, — in that of the lady particularly : it tells 
you that her lot is disposed of in this world ; that you can 
have no hopes of her. It is true, I have none ; nor wishes 
either, perhaps : but this is one of those truths which ought, 
as I said before, to be taken for granted, not expressed. 

The excessive airs which those people give themselves, 
founded on the ignorance of us unmarried people, would be 
more offensive if they were less irrational. We will allow them 
to understand the mysteries belonging to their own craft better 



198 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

than we who have not had the happiness to be made free of 
the company : but their arrogance is not content within these 
limits. If a single person presume to offer his opinion in their 
presence, though upon the most indifferent subject, he is im- 
mediately silenced as an incompetent person. Nay, a young 
married lady of my acquaintance who, the best of the jest was, 
had not changed her condition above a fortnight before, in 
a question on which I had the misfortune to differ from her, 
respecting the properest mode of breeding oysters for the 
London market, had the assurance to ask with a sneer, how 
such an old Bachelor as I could pretend to know anything 
about such matters. 
\^ But what I have spoken of hitherto is nothing to the airs 
' which these creatures give themselves when they come, as 
they generally do, to have children. a' When I consider how 
little of a rarity children are, — that every street and blind 
alley swarms with them, — that the poorest people commonly 
have them in most abundance, — that there are few marriages 
that are not blest with at least one of these bargains, — how 
often they turn out ill, and defeat the fond hopes of their 
parents, taking to vicious courses, which end in poverty, dis- 
grace, the gallows, &c. — I cannot for my life tell what cause 
for pride there can possibly be in having them. If they 
w^ere young phoenixes, indeed, that were born but one in 
a year, there might be a pretext. Rut when they are so 

common • 

I do not advert to the insolent merit which they assume 
with their husbands on these occasions. Let them look to 
that. But why zve, who are not their natural-born subjects, 
should be expected to bring our spices, myrrh, and incense, 
— our tribute and homage of admiration, — I do not see. 

'' Like as the arrows in the hand of the giant, even so 
are the young children : " so says the excellent office in our 
Prayer-book appointed for the churching of women. " Happy 
is the man that hath his quiver full of them." So say I ; 
but then don't let him discharge his quiver upon us that are 



CHARLES LAMB 199 

weaponless ; — let them be arrows, but not to gall and stick 
us. I have generally observed that these arrows are double- 
headed : they have two forks, to be sure to hit with one or 
the other. As for instance, where you come into a house 
which is full of children, if you happen to take no notice of 
them (you are thinking of something else, perhaps, and turn 
a deaf ear to their innocent caresses), you are set down as 
untractable, morose, a hater of children. On the other hand, 
if you find them more than usually engaging, — if you are 
taken with their pretty manners, and set about in earnest to 
romp and play with them, some pretext or other is sure to be 
found for sending them out of the room : they are too ' noisy 

or boisterous, or Mr. does not like children. With one 

or other of these forks the arrow is sure to hit you. 

I could forgive their jealousy, and dispense with toying 
with their brats, if it gives them any pain ; but I think it 
unreasonable to be called upon to love them, where I see no 
occasion, — to love a whole family, perhaps, eight, nine, or 
ten, indiscriminately, — to love all the pretty dears, because 
children are so engaging. 

I know there is a proverb, " Love me, love my dog : " that 
is not always so very practicable, particularly if the dog be set 
upon you to tease you or snap at you in sport. But a dog, 
or a lesser thing, — any inanimate substance, as a keepsake, 
a watch or a ring, a tree, or the place where we last parted 
when my friend went away upon a long absence, I can make 
shift to love, because I love him, and anything that reminds 
me of him ; provided it be in its nature indifferent, and apt 
to receive whatever hue fancy can give it. But children have 
a real character and an essential being of themselves : they 
are amiable or unamiable per se ; I must love or hate them as 
I see cause for either in their qualities. A child's nature is 
too serious a thing to admit of its being regarded as a mere 
appendage to another being, and to be loved or hated accord- 
ingly : they stand with me upon their own stock, as much as 
men and women do. O ! but you will say, sure it is an attractive 



200 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

age, — there is something in the tender years of infancy that 
of itself charms us. That is the very reason why I am more 
nice about them. I know that a sweet child is the sweetest 
thing in nature, not even excepting the delicate creatures which 
bear them ; but the prettier the kind of a thing is, the more 
desirable it is that it should be pretty of its kind. One daisy 
differs not much from another in glory ; but a violet should 
look and smell the daintiest. — I was always rather squeamish 
in my women and children. 
XVBut this is not the worst : one must be admitted into their 
familiarity at least, before they can complain of inattention. 
It implies visits, and some kind of intercourse. But if the 
husband be a man with whom you have lived on a friendly 
footing before marriage, — if you did not come in on the 
wife's side, — if you did not sneak into the house in her train, 
but were an old friend in fast habits of intimacy before their 
courtship was so much as thought on, — look about you — 
your tenure is precarious — before a twelvemonth shall roll 
over your head, you shall find your old friend gradually grow 
cool and altered towards you, and at last seek opportunities of 
breaking with you. I have scarce a married friend of my ac- 
quaintance upon whose firm faith I can rely, whose friendship 
did not commence after the period of his marriage. With 
some limitations they can endure that : but that the good man 
should have dared to enter into a solemn league of friendship 
in which they were not consulted, though it happened before 
they knew him, — before they that are now man and wife 
ever met, — this is intolerable to them. Every long friend- 
ship, every old authentic intimacy, must be brought into their 
office to be new stamped with their currency, as a sovereign 
Prince calls in the good old money that was coined in some 
reign before he was born or thought of, to be new marked 
and minted with the stamp of his authority, before he will let 
it pass current in the world. You may guess what luck gen- 
erally befalls such a rusty piece of metal as I am in these 
new mintings. 



CHARLES LAMB 201 

Innumerable are the ways which they take to insult and 
worm you out of their husband's confidence. Laughing at all 
you say with a kind of wonder, as if you were a queer kind 
of fellow that said good things, but an oddity, is one of the 
ways ; — they have a particular kind of stare for the purpose ; 
— till at last the husband, who used to defer to your judg- 
ment, and would pass over some excrescences of understand- , 
ing and manner for the sake of a general vein of observation ' 
(not quite vulgar) which he perceived in you, begins to sus- 
pect whether you are not altogether a humorist, — a fellow 
well enough to have consorted with in his bachelor days, but 
not quite so proper to be introduced to ladies. This may be 
called the staring way ; and is that which has oftenest been 
put in practice against me. 

Then there is the exaggerating way, or the way of irony : 
that is, where they find you an object of especial regard with 
their husband, who is not so easily to be shaken from the last- 
ing attachment founded on esteem which he has conceived 
towards you ; by never-qualified exaggerations to cry up all 
that you say or do, till the good man, who understands well 
enough that it is all done in compliment to him, grows weary 
of the debt of gratitude which is due to so much candour, 
and by relaxing a little on his part, and taking down a peg 
or two in his enthusiasm, sinks at length to that kindly level 
of moderate esteem, — that "decent affection and complacent 
kindness " towards you, where she herself can join in sym- 
pathy with him without much stretch and violence to her 
sincerity. 

Another way (for the ways they have to accomplish so desir- 
able a purpose are infinite) is, with a kind of innocent sim- 
plicity, continually to mistake what it was which first made 
their husband fond of you. If an esteem for something ex- 
cellent in your moral character was that which riveted the 
chain which she is to break, upon any imaginary discovery of 
a want of poignancy in your conversation, she. will cry, " I 
thought, my dear, you described your friend, Mr. as a 



202 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

great wit." If, on the other hand, it was for some supposed 
charm in your conversation that he first grew to like you, and 
was content for this to overlook some trifling irregularities 
in your moral deportment, upon the first notice of any of 
these she as readily exclaims, " This, my dear, is your good 

Mr. ," One good lady whom I took the liberty of 

expostulating with for not showing me quite so much respect 
as I thought due to her husband's old friend, had the candour 

to confess to me that she had often heard Mr. speak 

of me before marriage, and that she had conceived a great 
desire to be acquainted with me, but that the sight of me 
had very much disappointed her expectations ; for from her 
husband's representations of me, she had formed a notion 
that she was to see a fine, tall, officer-like looking man (I use 
her very words) ; the very reverse of which proved to be the 
truth. This was candid ; and I had the civility not to ask her 
in return, how she came to pitch upon a standard of personal 
accomplishments for her husband's friends ' which differed so 
much from his own ; for my friend's dimensions as near as 
possible approximate to mine ; he standing five feet five in his 
shoes, in which I have the advantage of him by about half an 
inch ; and he no more than myself exhibiting any indications 
of a martial character in his air or countenance. 

These are some of the mortifications which I have en- 
countered in the absurd attempt to visit at their houses. To 
enumerate them all would be a vain endeavour : I shall there- 
fore just glance at the very common impropriety of which 
married ladies are guilty, — of treating us as if we were their 
husbands, and vice versa. I mean, when they use us with 
familiarity, and their husbands with ceremony. Testacea, for 
instance, kept me the other night two or three hours beyond 
my usual time of supping, while she was fretting because 

Mr. did not come home, till the oysters were all 

spoiled, rather than she would be guilty of the impoliteness 
of touching one in his absence. This was reversing the point 
of good manners : for ceremony is an invention to take off 



CHARLES LAMB 203 

the uneasy feeling which we derive from knowing ourselves 
to be less the object of love and esteem with a fellow-creature 
than some other person is. It endeavours to make up, by supe- 
rior attentions in little points, for that invidious preference 
which it is forced to deny in the greater. Had Testacea kept 
the oysters back for me, and withstood her husband's impor- 
tunities to go to supper, she would have acted according to 
the strict rules of propriety. I know no ceremony that ladies 
are bound to observe to their husbands, beyond the point 
of a modest behaviour and decorum : therefore I must protest 
against the vicarious gluttony of Cerasia, who at her own table 
sent away a dish of Morellas, which I was applying to with 
great good will, to her husband at the other end of the table, 
and recommended a plate of less extraordinary gooseberries to 
my unwedded palate in their stead. Neither can I excuse the 

wanton affront of . 

But I am weary of stringing up all my married acquaint- 
ance by Roman denominations. Let them amend and change 
their manners, or I promise to record the full-length English 
of their names, to the terror of all such desperate offenders 
in future. 

VALENTINE'S DAY 
Examiner^ February 14 and 15, 18 19; Indicator, February 14, 1821 

Hail to thy returning festival, old Bishop Valentine ! Great 
is thy name in the rubric, thou venerable Archflamen of Hy- 
men ! Immortal Go-between ! who and what manner of per- 
son art thou } Art thou but a name, typifying the restless 
principle which impels poor humans to seek perfection in 
union '^. or wert thou indeed a mortal prelate, with thy tippet 
and thy rochet, thy apron on, and decent lawn sleeves } Mys- 
terious personage ! like unto thee, assuredly, there is no other 
mitred father in the calendar ; not Jerome, nor Ambrose, nor 
Cyril ; nor the consigner of undipt infants to eternal torments, 
Austin, whom all mothers hate; nor he who hated all mothers. 



204 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Origen ; nor Bishop Bull, nor Archbishop Parker, nor Whit- 
gift. Thou comest attended with thousands and ten thousands 
of little Loves, and the air is 

Brush'd with the hiss of rustling wings. 

Singing Cupids are thy choristers and thy precentors ; and 
instead of the crosier, the mystical arrow is borne before thee. 

In other words, this is the day on which those charming 
/ little missives, ycleped Valentines, cross and intercross each 
other at every street and turning. The weary and all forspent 
twopenny postman sinks beneath a load of delicate embarrass- 
ments, not his own. It is scarcely credible to what an extent 
this ephemeral courtship is carried on in this loving town, to 
the great enrichment of porters, and detriment of knockers 
and bell-wires. In these little visual interpretations, no emblem 
is so common as the heart, — that little three-cornered expo- 
nent of all our hopes and fears, — the bestuck and bleeding 
heart ; it is twisted and tortured into more allegories and affec- 
tations than an opera hat. What authority we have in history 
or mythology for placing the headquarters and metropolis of 
God Cupid in this anatomical seat rather than in any other, 
is not very clear ; but we have got it, and it will serve as well 
as any other. Else we might easily imagine, upon some other 
system which might have prevailed for any thing which our 
pathology knows to the contrary, a lover addressing his mis- 
tress, in perfect simplicity of feeling, " Madam, my liver and 
fortune are entirely at your disposal " ; or putting a delicate 
question, "Amanda, have you a midrijf to bestow.?" But 
custom has settled these things, and awarded the seat of 
sentiment to the aforesaid triangle, while its less fortunate 
neighbours wait at animal and anatomical distance. 

Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban and all 
rural sounds, exceed in interest a knock at the door. It '' gives 
a very echo to the throne where Hope is seated." But its 
issues seldom answer to this oracle within. It is so seldom 
that just the person we want to see comes. But of all the 



CHARLES LAMB 205 

clamorous visitations the welcomest in expectation is the sound 
that ushers in, or seems to usher in, a Valentine. As the 
raven himself was hoarse that announced the fatal entrance 
of Duncan, so the knock of the postman on this day is light, 
airy, confident, and befitting one that bringeth good tidings. 
It is less mechanical than on other days; you will say, "That 
is not the post I am sure." Visions of Love, of Cupids, of 
Hymens! — delightful eternal common-places, which ''having 
been will always be " ; which no school-boy nor school-man 
can write away ; having your irreversible throne in the fancy 
and affections — what are your transports, when the happy 
maiden, opening with careful finger, careful not to break the 
emblematic seal, bursts upon the sight of some well-designed 
allegory, some type, some youthful fancy, not without verses — 

Lovers all, 
A madrigal, 

or some such device, not over abundant in sense — young 
Love disclaims it, — and not quite silly — something between 
wind and water, a chorus where the sheep might almost 
join the shepherd, as they did, or as I apprehend they did, 
in Arcadia. 

All Valentines are not foolish ; and I shall not easily forget 
thine, my kind friend (if I may have leave to call you so) 
E. B. — E. B. lived opposite a young maiden, whom he had 
often seen, unseen, from his parlour window in C — e Street. 
She was all joyousness and innocence, and just of an age to 
enjoy receiving a Valentine, and just of a temper to bear the 
disappointment of missing one with good humour. E. B. is an 
artist of no common powers ; in the fancy parts of designing, 
perhaps inferior to none ; his name is known at the bottom of 
many a well-executed vignette in the way of his profession, but 
no further; for E. B. is modest, and the world meets nobody 
half-way. E. B. meditated how he could repay this young 
maiden for many a favour which she had done him unknown ; 
for when a kindly face greets us, though but passing by, and 



X 



2o6 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

never knows us again, nor we it, we should feel it as an obli- 
gation ; and E. B. did. This good artist set himself at work 
to please the damsel. It was just before Valentine's day three 
years since. He wrought, unseen and unsuspected, a wondrous 
work. We need not say it was on the finest gilt paper with 
borders — full, not of common hearts and heartless allegory, 
but all the prettiest stories of love from Ovid, and older poets 
than Ovid (for E. B. is a scholar). There was Pyramus and 
Thisbe, and be sure Dido was not forgot, nor Hero and Lean- 
der, and swans more than sang in Cayster, with mottos and 
fanciful devices, such as beseemed, — a work in short of 
magic. Iris dipt the woof. This on Valentine's eve he com- 
mended to the all-swallowing indiscriminate orifice — (O ignoble 
trust !) — of the common post ; but the humble medium did 
its duty, and from his watchful stand, the next morning, he 
saw the cheerful messenger knock, and by and by the precious 
charge delivered. He saw, unseen, the happy girl unfold the 
Valentine, dance about, clap her hands, as one after one the 
pretty emblems unfolded themselves. She danced about, not 
with light love, or foolish expectations, for she had no lover ; 
or, if she had, none she knew that could have created those 
bright images which delighted her. It was more like some 
fairy present ; a God-send, as our familiarly pious ancestors 
termed a benefit received, where the benefactor was unknown. 
It would do her no harm. It would do her good for ever 
after. It is good to love the unknown. I only give this as a 
specimen of E. B. and his modest way of doing a concealed 
kindness. 

Good-morrow to my Valentine, sings poor Ophelia ; and no 
better wish, but with better auspices, we wish to all faithful 
lovers, who are not too wise to despise old legends, but are 
content to rank themselves humble diocesans of old Bishop 
Valentine, and his true church. 



^L CHARLES LAMB 207 

y 

CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE AND THIRTY YEARS AGO 

London Magazine^ November, 1820 

In Mr. Lamb's Works, published a year or two since, I 
find a magnificent eulogy on my old school, such as it was, or 
now appears to him to have been, between the years 1782 and 
1789. It happens, very oddly, that my own standing at Christ's 
was nearly corresponding with his ; and, with all gratitude to 
him for his enthusiasm for the cloisters, I think he has con- 
trived to bring together whatever can be said in praise of them, 
dropping all the other side of the argument most ingeniously. 

I remember L. at school ; and can well recollect that he had 
some peculiar advantages, which I and others of his school- 
fellows had not. His friends lived in town, and were near at 
hand ; and he had the privilege of going to see them, almost 
as often as he wished, through some invidious distinction, 
which was denied to us. The present worthy sub-treasurer to 
the Inner Temple can explain how that happened. He had 
his tea and hot rolls in a morning, while we were battening 
upon our quarter of a penny loaf — our crug — moistened with 
attenuated small beer, in wooden piggins, smacking of the 
pitched leathern jack it was poured from. Our Monday's milk 
porritch, blue and tasteless, and the pease soup of Saturday, 
coarse and choking, were enriched for him with a slice of 
''extraordinary bread and butter," from the hot-loaf of the 
Temple. The Wednesday's mess of millet, somewhat less 
repugnant — (we had three banyan to four meat days in the 
week) — was endeared to his palate with a lump of double- 
refined, and a smack of ginger (to make it go down the more 
glibly) or the fragrant cinnamon. In lieu of our half -pickled 
Sundays, or qjiite fresh boiled beef on Thursdays (strong as 
cava eqni7ia), with detestable marigolds floating in the pail to 
poison the broth — our scanty mutton crags on Fridays — and 
rather more savoury, but grudging, portions of the same flesh, 
rotten-roasted or rare, on the Tuesdays (the only dish which 
excited our appetites, and disappointed our stomachs, in almost 



208 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

equal proportion) — he had his hot plate of roast veal, or the 
more tempting griskin (exotics unknown to our palates), cooked 
in the paternal kitchen (a great thing), and brought him daily by 
his maid or aunt ! I remember the good old relative (in whom 
love forbade pride) squatting down upon some odd stone in a 
by-nook of the cloisters, disclosing the viands (of higher regale 
than those cates which the ravens ministered to the Tishbite) ; 
and the contending passions of L. at the unfolding. There was 
love for the bringer ; shame for the thing brought, and the 
manner of its bringing ; sympathy for those who were too many 
to share in it ; and, at top of all, hunger (eldest, strongest of 
the passions !) predominant, breaking down the stony fences of 
shame, and awkwardness, and a troubling over-consciousness. 

I was a poor friendless boy. My parents, and those who 
should care for me, were far away. Those few acquaintances 
of theirs, which they could reckon upon being kind to me in 
the great city, after a little forced notice, which they had the 
grace to take of me on my first arrival in tow^n, soon grew 
tired of my holiday visits. They seemed to them to recur too 
often, though I thought them few enough ; and, one after 
another, they all failed me, and I felt myself alone among 
six hundred playmates. 

O the cruelty of separating a poor lad from his early home- 
stead ! The yearnings which I used to have towards it in 
those unfledged years ! How, in my dreams, would my native 
town (far in the west) come back, with its church, and trees, 
and faces ! How I would wake weeping, and in the anguish 
of my heart exclaim upon sweet Calne in Wiltshire ! 

To this late hour of my life, I trace impressions left by the 
recollection of those friendless holidays. The long warm days 
of summer never return but they bring with them a gloom 
from the haunting memory of those whole-day-leaves ^ when, 
by some strange arrangement, we were turned out, for the 
live-long day, upon our own hands, whether we had friends to 
go to, or none. I remember those bathing excursions to the 
New River, which L. recalls with such relish, better, I think. 



CHARLES LAMB 209 

than he can — for he was a home-seeking lad, and did not 
much care for such water-pastimes : — How merrily we would 
sally forth into the fields ; and strip under the first warmth of 
the sun ; and wanton like young dace in the streams ; getting 
us appetites for noon, which those of us that were penniless 
(our scanty morning crust long since exhausted) had not the 
means of allaying — while the cattle, and the birds, and the 
fishes, were at feed about us, and we had nothing to satisfy 
our cravings — the very beauty of the day, and the exercise 
of the pastime, and the sense of liberty, setting a keener edge 
upon them ! — How faint and languid finally we would return, 
towards nightfall, to our desired morsel, half -rejoicing, half- 
reluctant, that the hours of our uneasy liberty had expired ! 

It was worse in the days of winter, to go prowling about 
the streets objectless — shivering at cold windows of print- 
shops, to extract a little amusement ; or haply, as a last resort, 
in the hope of a little novelty, to pay a fifty-times repeated 
visit (where our individual faces should be as well known to 
the warden as those of his own charges) to the Lions in the 
Tower — to whose levee, by courtesy immemorial, we had a 
prescriptive title to admission. 

L.'s governor (so we called the patron who presented us 
to the foundation) lived in a manner under his paternal roof. 
Any complaint which he had to make was sure of being 
attended to. This was understood at Christ's, and was an 
effectual screen to him against the severity of masters, or 
worse tyranny of the monitors. The oppressions of these 
young brutes are heart-sickening to call to recollection. I 
have been called out of my bed, and waked for the purpose^ 
in the coldest winter nights — and this not once, but night 
after night — in my shirt, to receive the discipline of a 
leathern thong, with eleven other sufferers, because it pleased 
my callow overseer, when there has been any talking heard 
after we were gone to bed, to make the six last beds in the 
dormitory, where the youngest children of us slept, answerable 
for an offence they neither dared to commit, nor had the 



210 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

power to hinder. — The same execrable tyranny drove the 
younger part of us from the fires, when our feet were perish- 
ing with snow ; and under the crudest penalties, forbade the 
indulgence of a drink of water, when w^e lay in sleepless sum- 
mer nights, fevered with the season, and the day's sports. 

There was one H , who, I learned, in after days, 

was seen expiating some maturer offence in the hulks. (Do I 
flatter myself in fancying that this might be the planter of 

that name, who suffered at Nevis, I think, or St. Kitts, 

some few years since ? My friend Tobin was the benevo- 
lent instrument of bringing him to the gallows.) This petty 
Nero actually branded a boy, who had offended him, with a 
red-hot iron ; and nearly starved forty of us, with exacting 
contributions, to the one half of our bread, to pamper a young 
ass, which, incredible as it may seem, with the connivance of 
the nurse's daughter (a young flame of his) he had contrived 
to smuggle in, and keep upon the leads of the zvard, as they 
called our dormitories. This game went on for better than a 
week, till the foolish beast, not able to fare well but he must 
cry roast meat — happier than Caligula's minion, could he 
have kept his own counsel — but, foolisher, alas ! than any 
of his species in the fables — waxing fat, and kicking, in the 
fulness of bread, one unlucky minute would needs proclaim 
his good fortune to the world below ; and, laying out his sim-' 
pie throat, blew such a ram's horn blast, as (toppling down 
the walls of his own Jericho) set concealment any longer at 
defiance. The client was dismissed, with certain attentions, to 
Smithfield ; but I never understood that the patron underwent 
any censure on the occasion. This was in the stewardship of 
L.'s admired Perry. 

Under the same facile administration, can L. have forgotten 
the cool impunity with which the nurses used to carry away 
openly, in open platters, for their own tables, one out of two 
of every hot joint, which the careful matron had been seeing 
scrupulously weighed out for our dinners } These things were 
daily practised in that magnificent apartment, which L. (grown 



CHARLES LAMB 21 1 

connoisseur since, we presume) praises so highly for the grand 
paintings "by Verrio, and others," with which it is "hung 
round and adorned." But the sight of sleek, well-fed blue- 
coat boys in pictures was, at that time, I believe, little consola- 
tory to him, or us, the living ones, who saw the better part of 
our provisions carried away before our faces by harpies ; and 
ourselves reduced (with the Trojan in the hall of Dido) 

To feed our mind with idle portraiture. 

L. has recorded the repugnance of the school to gags, 
or the fat of fresh beef boiled ; and sets it down to some 
superstition. But these unctuous morsels are never grateful 
to young palates (children are universally fat-haters) and in 
strong, coarse, boiled meats, tmsalted, are detestable. A gag- 
eater in our time was equivalent to a gonl, and held in equal 
detestation. suffered under the imputation. 

'Twas said, 

He ate strange flesh. 

He was observed, after dinner, carefully to gather up the 
remnants left at his table (not many, nor very choice frag- 
ments, you may credit me) — and, in an especial manner, 
these disreputable morsels, which he would convey away, and 
secretly stow in the settle that stood at his bed-side. None 
saw when he ate them. It was rumoured that he privately 
devoured them in the night. He was watched, but no traces 
of such midnight practices were discoverable. Some reported 
that, on leave-days, he had been seen to carry out of the 
bounds a large blue check handkerchief, full of something. 
This then must be the accursed thing. Conjecture next was 
at work to imagine how he could dispose of it. Some said he 
sold it to the beggars. This belief generally prevailed. He 
went about moping. None spake to him. No one would 
play with him. He was excommunicated ; put out of the pale 
of the school. He was too powerful a boy to be beaten, but 
he underwent every mode of that negative punishment, which 
is more grievous than many stripes. Still he persevered. At 



212 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

length he was observed by two of his school-fellows, who were 
determined to get at the secret, and had traced him one leave- 
day for that purpose, to enter a large worn-out building, such 
as there exist specimens of in Chancery Lane, which are let 
out to various scales of pauperism with open door, and a com- 
mon staircase. After him they silently slunk in, and followed 
by stealth up four flights, and saw him tap at a poor wicket, 
which was opened by an aged woman, meanly clad. Suspicion 
was now ripened into certainty. The informers had secured 
their victim. They had him in their toils. Accusation was 
formally preferred, and retribution most signal was looked for. 
Mr. Hathaway, the then steward (for this happened a little 
after my time), with that patient sagacity which tempered all 
his conduct, determined to investigate the matter, before he 
proceeded to sentence. The result was that the supposed 
mendicants, the receivers or purchasers of the mysterious 

scraps, turned out to be the parents of , an honest couple 

come to decay, — whom this seasonable supply had, in all 
probability, saved from mendicancy ; and that this young 
stork, at the expense of his own good name, had all this while 
been only feeding the old birds ! — The governors on this 
occasion, much to their honour, voted a present relief to the 

family of , and presented him with a silver medal. The 

lesson which the steward read upon rash judgment, on 
the occasion of publicly delivering the medal to , I be- 
lieve, would not be lost upon his auditory. — I had left school 

then, but I well remember , He was a tall, shambling 

youth, with a cast in his eye, not at all calculated to concili- 
ate hostile prejudices. I have since seen him carrying a 
baker's basket. I think I heard he did not do quite so w^ell 
by himself, as he had done by the old folks. 

I was a hypochondriac lad ; and the sight of a boy in fet- 
ters, upon the day of my first putting on the blue clothes, was 
not exactly fitted to assuage the natural terrors of initiation. 
I was of tender years, barely turned of seven ; and had only 
read of such things in books, or seen them but in dreams. I 



CHARLES LAMB 213 

was told he had run away. This was the punishment for the 
first offence. — As a novice I was soon after taken to see the 
dungeons. These were little, square, Bedlam cells, where a 
boy could just lie at his length upon straw and a blanket — a 
mattress, I think, was afterwards substituted — with a peep of ^ 
light, let in askance, from a prison-orifice at top, barely enough 
to read by. Here the poor boy was locked in by himself all 
day, without sight of any but the porter who brought him his 
bread and water — who might not speak to Jiini ; — or of the 
beadle, who came twice a week to call him out to receive his 
periodical chastisement, which was almost welcome, because it 
separated him for a bri^f interval from solitude : — and here 
he was shut up by himself of nights, out of the reach of any 
sound, to suffer whatever horrors the weak nerves, and supersti- 
tion incident to his time of life, might subject him to.^ This 
was the penalty for the second offence. — Wouldst thou like, 
reader, to see what became of him in the next degree } 

The culprit, who had been a third time an offender, and 
whose expulsion was at this time deemed irreversible, was 
brought forth, as at some solemn anto da fe, arrayed in un- 
couth and most appalling attire — all trace of his late '' watchet 
weeds " carefully effaced, he was exposed in a jacket, resem- 
bling those which London lamplighters formerly delighted in, 
with a cap of the same. The effect of this divestiture was such 
as the ingenious devisers of it could have anticipated. With 
his pale and frighted features, it was as if some of those dis- 
figurements in Dante had seized upon him. In this disguise- 
ment he was brought into the hall {Vs favourite state-room), 
where awaited him the whole number of his schoolfellows, 
whose joint lessons and sports he was thenceforth to share no 
more ; the awful presence of the steward, to be seen for the 

^ One or two instances of lunacy, or attempted suicide, accordingly, at 
length convinced the governors of the impolicy of this part of the sentence, 
and the midnight torture to the spirits was dispensed with. — This fancy of 
dungeons for children was a sprout of Howard's brain ; for which (saving 
the reverence due to Holy Paul), methinks, I could willingly spit upon his 
statue. 



214 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

last time ; of the executioner beadle, clad in his state robe for 
the occasion ; and of two faces more, of direr import, because 
never but in these extremities visible. These were governors ; 
two of whom, by choice, or charter, were always accustomed 
to officiate at these Ultima Siipplicia ; not to mitigate (so at 
least we understood it), but to enforce the uttermost stripe. 
Old Bamber Gascoigne, and Peter Aubert, I remember, were 
colleagues on one occasion, when the beadle turning rather 
pale, a glass of brandy was ordered to prepare him for the mys- 
teries. The scourging was, after the old Roman fashion, long 
and stately. The lictor accompanied the criminal quite round 
the hall. We were generally too faint with attending to the pre- 
vious disgusting circumstances, to make accurate report with 
our eyes of the degree of corporal suffering inflicted. Report, 
of course, gave out the back knotty and livid. After scourging, 
he was made over, in his San Benito, to his friends, if he had 
any (but commonly such poor runagates were friendless), or to 
his parish officer, who, to enhance the effect of the scene, had 
his station allotted to him on the outside of the hall gate. 

These solemn pageantries were not played off so often as 
to spoil the general mirth of the community. We had plenty 
of exercise and recreation after school hours ; and, for myself, 
I must confess, that I was never happier, than in them. The 
Upper and Lower Grammar Schools were held in the same 
room ; and an imaginary line only divided their bounds. Their 
character was as different as that of the inhabitants on the 
two sides of the Pyrenees. The Rev. James Boyer was the 
Upper Master ; but the Rev. Matthew Field presided over that 
portion of the apartment of which I had the good fortune to 
be a member. We lived a life as careless as birds. We talked 
and did just what we pleased, and nobody molested us. We 
carried an accidence, or a grammar, for form ; but, for any 
trouble it gave us, we might take two years in getting through 
the verbs deponent, and another two in forgetting all that we 
had learned about them. There was now and then the for- 
mality of saying a lesson, but if you had not learned it, a 



CHARLES LAMB 215 

brush across the shoulders (just enough to disturb a fly) was 
the sole remonstrance. Field never used the rod ; and in truth 
he wielded the cane with no great good will — holding it 
" like a dancer." It looked in his hands rather like an emblem 
than an instrument of authority ; and an emblem, too, he was 
ashamed of. He was a good easy man, that did not care to 
ruffle his own peace, nor perhaps set any great consideration 
upon the value of juvenile time. He came among us, now and 
then, but often stayed away whole days from us ; and when he 
came, it made no difference to us — he had his private room 
to retire to, the short time he stayed, to be out of the sound 
of our noise. Our mirth and uproar went on. We had clas- 
sics of our own, without being beholden to " insolent Greece 
or haughty Rome," that passed current among us — Peter 
Wilkms — The Adventures of the Hon. Capt. Robert Boyle — 
The Fortunate Blue Coat Boy — and the like. Or we cultivated 
a turn for mechanic or scientific operation ; making little sun- 
dials of paper ; or weaving those ingenious parentheses, called 
cat-cradles ; or making dry peas to dance upon the end of a 
tin pipe ; or studying the art military over that laudable game 
" French and English," and a hundred other such devices to 
pass away the time — mixing the useful with the agreeable — 
as would have made the souls of Rousseau and John Locke 
chuckle to have seen us. 

Matthew Field belonged to that class of modest divines who 
affect to mix in equal proportion the gentleman, the scholar, 
and the Christian ; but, I know not how, the first ingredient 
is generally found to be the predominating dose in the com- 
position. He was engaged in gay parties, or with his courtly 
bow at some episcopal levee, when he should have been attend- 
ing upon us. He had for many years the classical charge of 
a hundred children, during the four or five first years of their 
education ; and his very highest form seldom proceeded further 
than two or three of the introductory fables of Phaedrus. How 
things were suffered to go on thus, I cannot guess. Boyer, 
who was the proper person to have remedied these abuses, 



2i6 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

always affected, perhaps felt, a delicacy in interfering in a 
province not strictly his own. I have not been without my 
suspicions that he was not altogether displeased at the con- 
trast we presented to his end of the school. We were a sort 
of Helots to his young Spartans. He would sometimes, with 
ironic deference, send to borrow a rod of the Under Master, 
and then, with Sardonic grin, observe to one of his upper 
boys, " how neat and fresh the twigs looked." While his pale 
students were battering their brains over Xenophon and Plato, 
with a silence as deep as that enjoined by the Samite, we were 
enjoying ourselves at our ease in our little Goshen. We saw 
a little into the secrets of his discipline, and the prospect did 
but the more reconcile us to our lot. His thunders rolled in- 
nocuous for us ; his storms came near, but never touched us ; 
contrary to Gideon's miracle, while all around were drenched, 
our fleece was dry.^ His boys turned out the better scholars ; 
we, I suspect, have the advantage in temper. His pupils can- 
not speak of him without something of terror allaying their 
gratitude ; the remembrance of Field comes back with all the 
soothing images of indolence, and summer slumbers, and work 
like play, and innocent idleness, and Elysian exemptions, and 
life itself a ''playing holiday." 

Though sufficiently removed from the jurisdiction of Boyer, 
we were near enough (as I have said) to understand a little of 
his system. We occasionally heard sounds of the Uhdantes, 
and caught glances of Tartarus. B. was a rabid pedant. His 
English style was cramped to barbarism. His Easter anthems 
(for his duty obliged him to those periodical flights) were grat- 
ing as scrannel pipes.^ — He would laugh, ay, and heartily, 

1 Cowley. 

2 In this and everything B. was the antipodes of his coadjutor. While the 
former was digging his brains for crude anthems, worth a pig-nut, F. would 
be recreating his gentlemanly fancy in the more flowery walks of the Muses. 
A little dramatic effusion of his, under the name of VeHujtimts and Pomona, 
is not yet forgotten by the chroniclers of that sort of literature. It was ac- 
cepted by Garrick, but the town did not give it their sanction. — B, used to 
say of it, in a way of half-compliment, half-irony, that it was too classical 
for representatiofi. 



CHARLES LAMB 217 

but then it must be at Flaccus's quibble about Rex or at 

the tristis severitas in vultti^ or inspicei-e in patinas ^ of Terence 
— thin jests, which at their first broaching could hardly have 
had vis enough to move a Roman muscle. — He had two wigs, 
both pedantic, but of differing omen. The one serene, smil- 
ing, fresh powdered, betokening a mild day. The other, an 
old discoloured, unkempt, angry caxon, denoting frequent and 
bloody execution. Woe to the school, when he made his morn- 
ing appearance in his passy, or passionate wig. No comet ex- 
pounded surer. — J. B. had a heavy hand. I have known him 
double his knotty fist at a poor trembling child (the maternal 
milk hardly dry upon its lips) with a '' Sirrah, do you presume 
to set your wits at me V — Nothing was more common than 
to see him make a headlong entry into the schoolroom, from 
his inner recess, or library, and, with turbulent eye, singling 
out a lad, roar out, " Od's my life. Sirrah " (his favourite ad- 
juration), "I have a great mind to whip you," — then, with 
as sudden a retracting impulse, fling back into his lair — and, 
after a cooling lapse of some minutes (during which all but the 
culprit had totally forgotten the context) drive headlong out 
again, piecing out his imperfect sense, as if it had been some 
Devil's Litany, with the expletory yell — " and I \niia. too.'' — 
In his gentler moods, when the rabicins furor was assuaged, 
he had resort to an ingenious method, peculiar, for what I 
have heard, to himself, of whipping the boy, and reading the 
Debates, at the same time ; a paragraph, and a lash between ; 
which in those times, when parliamentary oratory was most at 
a height and flourishing in these realms, was not calculated to 
impress the patient with a veneration for the diffuser graces 
of rhetoric. 

Once, and but once, the uplifted rod was known to fall inef- 
fectual from his hand — when droll squinting W having 

been caught putting the inside of the master's desk to a use 
for which the architect had clearly not designed it, to justify 
himself, with great simplicity averred that he did not know that 
the thing had been forewarned. This exquisite irrecognition 



21 8 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

of any law antecedent to the oral or declaratory struck so 
irresistibly upon the fancy of all who heard it (the pedagogue 
himself not excepted) that remission was unavoidable. 

L. has given credit to B.'s great merits as an instructor. 
Coleridge, in his literary life, has pronounced a more intelli- 
gible and ample encomium on them. The author of the 
Coiintry Spectator doubts not to compare him wdth the ablest 
teachers of antiquity. Perhaps we cannot dismiss him better 
than with the pious ejaculation of C. — when he heard that 
his old master was on his death-bed — "Poor J. B. ! — may 
all his faults be forgiven ; and may he be wafted to bliss by 
little cherub boys, all head and wings, with no bottoms to 
reproach his sublunary infirmities." 

Under him were many good and sound scholars bred. — 
First Grecian of my time was Lancelot Pepys Stevens, kindest 
of boys and men, since Co-grammar-master (and inseparable 

companion) with Dr. T e. What an edifying spectacle 

did this brace of friends present to those who remembered the 
anti-socialities of their predecessors ! — You never met the one 
by chance in the street without a wonder, which was quickly 
dissipated by the almost immediate sub-appearance of the other. 
Generally arm in arm, these kindly coadjutors lightened for 
each other the toilsome duties of their profession, and when, 
in advanced age, one found it convenient to retire, the other 
was not long in discovering that it suited him to lay down the 
fasces also. Oh, it is pleasant, as it is rare, to find the same 
arm linked in yours at forty, which at thirteen helped it to 
turn over the Cicero De Amicitia, or some tale of Antique 
Friendship, which the young heart even then was burning to 

anticipate ! — Co-Grecian with S. was Th -, who has since 

executed with ability various diplomatic functions at the Northern 

courts. Th was a tall, dark, saturnine youth, sparing of 

speech, with raven locks. — Thomas Fanshaw Middleton fol- 
lowed him (now Bishop of Calcutta) a scholar and a gentleman 
in his teens. He has the reputation of an excellent critic ; 
and is author (besides the Country Spectator ) of a Treatise on 



CHARLES LAMB 219 

the Greek Article, against Sharpe — M. is said to bear his 
mitre high in India, where the regni novitas (I dare say) 
sufficiently justifies the bearing. A humiHty quite as primitive 
as that of Jewel or Hooker might not be exactly fitted to 
impress the minds of those Anglo-Asiatic diocesans with a 
reverence for home institutions, and the church which those 
fathers watered. The manners of M. at school, though firm, 
were mild, and unassuming. — Next to M. (if not senior to 
him) was Richards, author of the Aboriginal Britons, the most 
spirited of the Oxford Prize Poems ; a pale, studious Grecian. 

— Then followed poor S , ill-fated M ! of these 

the Muse is silent. 

Finding some of Edward's race 
Unhappy, pass their annals by. 

Come back into memory, like as thou wert in the dayspring 
of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee — 
the dark pillar not yet turned — Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

— Logician, Metaphysician, Bard ! — How have I seen the 
casual passer through the Cloisters stand still, entranced with 
admiration (while he weighed the disproportion between the 
speech and the garb of the young Mirandula), to hear thee 
unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of 
Jamblichus, or Plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst 
not pale at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer in 
his Greek, or Pindar — while the walls of the old Grey Friars 
re-echoed to the accents of the inspired charity-boy ! — Many 
were the "wit-combats " (to dally awhile with the words of old 

Fuller) between him and C. V. Le G , '' which two I 

behold like a Spanish great gallion, and an English man-of- 
war ; Master Coleridge, like the former, was built far higher 
in learning, solid, but slow in his performances. C. V. L., 
with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in 
sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage 
of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention." 

Nor shalt thou, their compeer, be quickly forgotten, Allen, 
with the cordial smile, and still more cordial laugh, with which 



220 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

thou wert wont tp make the old Cloisters shake, in thy cogni- 
tion of some poignant jest of theirs ; or the anticipation of 
some more material, and, peradventure, practical one, of thine 
own. Extinct are those smiles, with that beautiful countenance, 
with which (for thou wert the Nireiis formosits of the school), 
in the days of thy maturer waggery, thou didst disarm the 
wrath of infuriated town-damsel, who, incensed by provoking 
pinch, turning tigress-like round, suddenly converted by thy 

angel-look, exchanged the half-formed terrible '' bl ," for 

a gentler greeting — ''bless thy handsome face ! '^ 

Next follow two, who ought to be now alive, and the friends 

of Elia — the junior Le G and F ; who impelled, 

the former by a roving temper, the latter by too quick a sense 
of neglect — ill capable of enduring the slights poor Sizars 
are sometimes subject to in our seats of learning — exchanged 
their Alma Mater for the camp ; perishing, one by climate, 

and one on the plains of Salamanca : — Le G sanguine, 

volatile, sweet-natured ; F dogged, faithful, anticipative 

of insult, warm-hearted, with something of the old Roman 
height about him. 

Fine, frank-hearted Fr , the present master of Hert- 
ford, with Marmaduke T , mildest of Missionaries — and 

both my good friends still — close the catalogue of Grecians 
in my time. 

THE TWO RACES OF MEN 

London Magazine^ December, 1820 

The human species, according to the best theory I can form 
of it, is composed of two distinct races, the men who borrozv, 
and the men zvho lend. To these two original diversities may 
be reduced all those impertinent classifications of Gothic and 
Celtic tribes, white men, black men, red men. All the dwellers 
upon earth, '' Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites," flock 
hither, and do naturally fall in with one or other of these 
primary distinctions. The infinite superiority of the former. 



CHARLES LAMB 221 

which I choose to designate as the great race, is discernible 
in their figure, port, and a certain instinctive sovereignty. The 
latter are born degraded. "He shall serve his brethren." 
There is something in the air of one of this cast, lean and sus- 
picious ; contrasting with the open, trusting, generous manner 
of the other. 

Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all ages 
— Alcibiades — Falstaff — Sir Richard Steele — our late in- 
comparable Brinsley — what a family likeness in all four ! 

What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower ! what 
rosy gills ! what a beautiful reliance on Providence doth he 
manifest, — taking no more thought than lilies ! What con- 
tempt for money, — accounting it (yours and mine especially) 
no better than dross ! What a liberal confounding of those 
pedantic distinctions of meuni and timni ! or rather, what a 
noble simplification of language (beyond Tooke), resolving these 
supposed opposites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjec- 
tive ! — What near approaches doth he make to the primitive 
commtuiity, — to the extent of one-half of the principle at 
least ! — 

He is the true taxer who '' calleth all the world up to be 
taxed " ; and the distance is as vast between him and one of 
?cs, as subsisted betwixt the Augustan Majesty and the poorest 
obolary Jew that paid it tribute-pittance at Jerusalem ! — His 
exactions, too, have such a cheerful, voluntary air ! So far re- 
moved from your sour parochial or state-gatherers, — those ink- 
horn varlets, who carry their want of welcome in their faces ! 
He Cometh to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no 
receipt ; confining himself to no set season. Every day is his 
Candlemas, or his Feast of Holy Michael. He applieth the 
lene tormentum of a pleasant look to your purse, — which to 
that gentle warmth expands her silken leaves, as naturally as 
the cloak of the traveller, for which sun and wind contended ! 
He is the true Propontic which never ebbeth ! The sea which 
taketh handsomely at each man's hand. In vain the victim, 
whom he delighteth to honour, struggles with destiny ; he is 



222 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

in the net. Lend therefore cheerfully, O man ordained to lend 
— that thou lose not in the end, with thy worldly penny, the 
k^ Reversion promised. Combine not preposterously in thine own 
person the penalties of Lazarus and of Dives! — but, when thou 
seest the proper authority coming, meet it smilingly, as it were 
half-way. Come, a handsome sacrifice ! See how light he makes 
of it ! Strain not courtesies with a noble enemy. 

Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my mind by 
the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Esq., who departed 
this life on Wednesday evening ; dying, as he had lived, without 
much trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty 
ancestors of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in 
this realm. In his actions and sentiments he belied not the 
stock to which he pretended. Early in life he found himself 
invested with ample revenues ; which, with that noble disinter- 
estedness which I have noticed as inherent in men of the great 
race, he took almost immediate measures entirely to dissipate 
and bring to nothing : for there is something revolting in the 
idea of a king holding a private purse ; and the thoughts 
of Bigod were all regal. Thus furnished, by the very act of 
disfurnishment ; getting rid of the cumbersome luggage of 
riches, more apt (as one sings) 

To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, 

Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise, 

he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his great enterprise, 
" borrowing and to borrow ! " 

In his periegesis, or triumphant progress throughout this 
island, it has been calculated that he laid a tithe part of the 
inhabitants under contribution. I reject this estimate as greatly 
exaggerated : — but having had the honour of accompanying 
my friend, divers times, in his perambulations about this vast 
city, I own I was greatly struck at first with the prodigious 
number of faces we met, who claimed a sort of respectful ac- 
quaintance with us. He was one day so obliging as to explain 
the phenomenon. It seems, these were his tributaries ; feeders 



CHARLES LAMB 223 

of his exchequer ; gentlemen, his good friends (as he was 
pleased to express himself), to whom he had occasionally been 
beholden for a loan. Their multitudes did no way disconcert 
him. He rather took a pride in numbering them ; and, with 
Comus, seemed pleased to be "stocked with so fair a herd." 

With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived to keep 
his treasury always empty. He did it by force of an aphorism, 
which he had often in his mouth, that " money kept longer 
than three days stinks." So he made use of it while it was 
fresh. A good part he drank away (for he was an excellent 
toss-pot), some he gave away, the rest he threw away, literally 
tossing and hurling it violently from him — as boys do burrs, 
or as if it had been infectious, — into ponds or ditches, or deep 
holes, — inscrutable cavities of the earth ; — or he would bury 
it (where he would never seek it again) by a river's side under 
some bank, which (he would facetiously observe) paid no in- 
terest — but out away from him it must go peremptorily, as 
Hagar's offspring into the wilderness, while it was sweet. He 
never missed it. The streams were perennial which fed his 
fisc. When new supplies became necessary, the first person 
that had the felicity to fall in with him, friend or stranger, was 
sure to contribute to the deficiency. For Bigod had an imde- 
iiiable way with him. He had a cheerful, open exterior, a quick 
jovial eye, a bald forehead, just touched with grey {c ana fides). 
He anticipated no excuse, and found none. And, waiving for 
a while my theory as to the great race, I would put it to the 
most untheorising reader, who may at times have disposable 
coin in his pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the 
kindliness of his nature to refuse such a one as I am describ- 
ing, than to say no to a poor petitionary rogue (your bastard 
borrower), who, by his mumping visnomy, tells you that he 
expects nothing better ; and, therefore, whose preconceived 
notions and expectations you do in reality so much less shock 
in the refusal. 

When I think of this man ; his fiery glow of heart ; his 
swell of feeling ; how magnificent, how ideal he was ; how great 



224 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

at the midnight hour ; and when I compare with him the com- 
panions with whom I have associated since, I grudge the sav- 
ing of a few idle ducats, and think that I am fallen into the 
society of lenders, and little men. 

To one like Elia, whose treasures are rather cased in leather 
covers than closed in iron coffers, there is a class of alienators 
more formidable than that which I have touched upon ; I mean 
your borrozvers of books — those mutilators of collections, spoil- 
ers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes. 
There is Comberbatch, matchless in his depredations ! 

That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like a great 
eye-tooth knocked out — (you are now with me in my little back 
study in Bloomsbury, reader !) — with the huge Switzer-like 
tomes on each side (like the Guildhall giants, in their reformed 
posture, guardant of nothing) once held the tallest of my folios. 
Opera BonaventiircE, choice and massy divinity, to which its two 
supporters (school divinity also, but of a lesser calibre, — Bel- 
larmine, and Holy Thomas), showed but as dwarfs, — itself an 
Ascapart ! — that Comberbatch abstracted upon the faith of a 
theory he holds, which is more easy, I confess, for me to suffer 
by than to refute, namely, that " the title to property in a book 
(my Bonaventure, for instance), is in exact ratio to the claim- 
ant's powers of understanding and appreciating the same."- 
Should he go on acting upon this theory, which of our shelves 
is safe ? 

The slight vacuum in the left hand case — two shelves from 
the ceiling — scarcely distinguishable but by the quick eye of a 

loser was whilom the commodious resting-place of Brown 

on Urn Burial. C. will hardly allege that he knows more about 
that treatise than I do, who introduced it to him, and was in- 
deed the first (of the moderns) to discover its beauties — but so 
have I known a foolish lover to praise his mistress in the pres- 
ence of a rival more qualified to carry her off than himself. — 
Just below, Dodsley's dramas want their fourth volume, where 
Vittona Corombona is ! The remainder nine are as distasteful 
as Priam's refuse sons, when the Fates borrowed Hector. Here 



CHARLES LAMB 225 

stood the Anatomy of Melancholy, in sober state. — There loi- 
tered The Complete Angler \ quiet as in Hfe, by some stream 
side. — In yonder nook, John Bzmcle, a widower-volume, with 
"eyes closed," mourns his ravished mate. 

One justice I must do my friend, that if he sometimes, like 
the sea, sweeps away a treasure, at another time, sea-like, he 
throws up as rich an equivalent to match it. I have a small 
under-collection of this nature (my friend's gatherings in his 
various calls), picked up, he has forgotten at what odd places, 
and deposited with as little memory at mine. I take in these 
orphans, the twice-deserted. These proselytes of the gate are 
welcome as the true Hebrews, There they stand in conjunc- 
tion ; natives, and naturalised. The latter seemed as little dis- 
posed to inquire out their true lineage as I am. — I charge no 
warehouse-room for these deodands, nor shall ever put myself 
to the ungentlemanly trouble of advertising a sale of them to 
pay expenses. 

To lose a volume to C. carries some sense and meaning in 
it. You are sure that he will make one hearty meal on your 
viands, if he can give no account of the platter after it. But 
what moved thee, wayward, spiteful K., to be so importunate 
to carry off with thee, in spite of tears and adjurations to thee 
to forbear, the Letters of that princely woman, the thrice noble 
Margaret Newcastle .'' — knowing at the time, and knowing that 
I knew also, thou most assuredly wouldst never turn over one 
leaf of the illustrious folio : — what but the mere spirit of 
contradiction, and childish love of getting the better of thy 
friend .'' — Then, worst cut of all ! to transport it with thee 
to the Galilean land — 

Unworthy land to harbour such a sweetness, 

A virtue in which all ennobling thoughts dwelt, 

Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her sex's wonder ! 

— hadst thou not thy play-books, and books of jests and fan- 
cies, about thee, to keep thee merry, even as thou keepest all 
companies with thy quips and mirthful tales.? — Child of the 



226 '^ * ><e THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Green-room, it was unkindly done of thee. Thy wife, too, that 
part- French, better-part EngUsh woman ! — that she could fix 
upon no other treatise to bear away in kindly token of remem- 
bering us, than the works of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook — of 
which no Frenchman, nor woman of France, Italy, or England, 
was ever by nature constituted to comprehend a tittle! Was 
there not Zimmerman on Solitude ? 

Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate collection, 
be shy of showing it ; or if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, 
lend thy books ; but let it be to such a one as S. T. C. — he 
will return them (generally anticipating the time appointed) 
with usury ; enriched with annotations, tripling their value. I 
have had experience. Many are these precious MSS. of his — 
(in matter oftentimes, and almost in qnaiitity not infrequently, 
vying with the originals) — in no very clerkly hand — legible 
in my Daniel ; in old Burton ; in Sir Thomas Browne ; and 
those abstruser cogitations of the Greville, now, alas ! wander- 
ing in Pagan lands — I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor 
thy library, against S. T. C. 

IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES 

London Magazine^ August, 1821 

I am of a constitution so general, that it consorts and sympathiseth with all 
things ; I have no antipathy, or rather idiosyncrasy in anything. Those national 
repugnances do not touch me, nor do I behold with prejudice the French, 
Italian, Spaniard, or Dutch. — Religio Medici 

That the author of the Religio Medici, mounted upon the 
airy stilts of abstraction, conversant about notional and conjec- 
tural essences ; in whose categories of Being the possible took 
the upper hand of the actual ; should have overlooked the im- 
pertinent individualities of such poor concretions as mankind, 
is not much to be admired. It is rather to be wondered at, 
tliat in the genus of animals he should have condescended to 
distinguish that species at all. For myself — earth-bound and 
fettered to the scene of my activities, — 

Standing on earth, not rapt above the sky, 



CHARLES LAMB 227 

I confess that I do feel the differences of mankind, national 
or individual, to an unhealthy excess. I can look with no in- 
different eye upon things or persons. Whatever is, is to me 
a matter of taste or distaste ; or when once it becomes indif- 
ferent, it begins to be disrelishing. I am, in plainer words, a 
bundle of prejudices- — made up of likings and dislikings — 
the veriest thrall to sympathies, apathies, antipathies. In a 
certain sense, I hope it may be said of me that I am a lover 
of my species. I can feel for all indifferently, but I cannot feel 
towards all equally. The more purely-English word that ex- 
presses sympathy will better explain my meaning. I can 'be a 
friend to a worthy man, who upon another account cannot be 
my mate or fellow, I cannot like all people alike. ^ 

I have been trying all my life to like Scotchmen, and am 
obliged to desist from the experiment in despair. They can- 
not like me — and in truth, I never knew one of that nation 
who attempted to do it. There is something more plain and 
ingenuous in their mode of proceeding. We know one another 
at first sight. There is an order of imperfect intellects (under 
which mine must be content to rank) which in its constitution 

1 I would be understood as confining myself to the subject of imperfect sym- 
pathies. To nations or classes of men there can be no direct antipathy. There 
may be individuals born and constellated so opposite to another individual 
nature, that the same sphere cannot hold them. I have met with my moral 
antipodes, and can believe the story of two persons meeting*(who never saw 
one another before in their lives) and instantly fighting. 

We by proof find there should be 



'Twixt man and man such an antipathy, 
That though he can show no just reason why 
For any former wrong or injury, 
Can neither find a blemish in his fame. 
Nor aught in face or feature justly blame. 
Can challenge or accuse him of no evil. 
Yet notwithstanding hates him as a devil. 

The lines are from old Heywood's Hierarchie of Angels, and he subjoins a 
curious story in confirmation, of a Spaniard who attempted to assassinate a 
King Ferdinand of Spain, and being put to the rack could give no other reason 
for the deed but an inveterate antipathy which he had taken to the first sight 
of the King. 

The cause which to that act compell'd him 

Was, he ne'er loved him since he first beheld him. 



228 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

is essentially anti-Caledonian. The owners of the sort of facul- 
ties I allude to have minds rather suggestive than comprehen- 
sive. They have no pretences to much clearness or precision 
in their ideas, or in their manner of expressing them. Their 
intellectual wardrobe (to confess fairly) has few whole pieces 
in it. They are content with fragments and scattered pieces of 
Truth. She presents no full front to them — a feature or side- 
face at the most. Hints and glimpses, germs and crude essays 
at a system, is the utmost they pretend to. They beat up a 
little game peradventure — and leave it to knottier heads, more 
robust constitutions, to run it down. The light that lights them 
is not steady and polar, but mutable and shifting : waxing, and 
again waning. Their conversation is accordingly. They will 
throw out a random word in or out of season, and be content 
to let it pass for what it is worth. They cannot speak always 
as if they were upon their oath — but must be understood, 
speaking or writing, with some abatement. They seldom wait 
to mature a proposition, but e'en bring it to market in the 
green ear. They delight to impart their defective discoveries 
as they arise, without waiting for their full development. They 
are no systematisers, and would but err more by attempting it. 
Their minds, as I said before, are suggestive merely. The 
brain of a true Caledonian (if I am not mistaken) is consti- 
tuted upon quite a different plan. His Minerva is born in 
panoply. You are never admitted to see his ideas in their 
growth — if, indeed, they do grow, and are not rather put 
together upon principles of clockwork. You never catch his 
mind in an undress. He never hints or suggests any thing, but 
unlades his stock of ideas in perfect order and completeness. 
He brings his total wealth into company, and gravely unpacks 
it. His riches are always about him. He never stoops to catch 
a glittering something in your presence, to share it with you, 
before he quite knows whether it be true touch or not. You 
cannot cry halves to any thing that he finds. He does not 
find, but bring. You never witness his first apprehension of 
a thing. His understanding is always at its meridian — you 



CHARLES LAMB 229 

never see the first dawn, the early streaks. — He has no 
falterings of self-suspicion. Surmises, guesses, misgivings, 
half-intuitions, semi-consciousnesses, partial illuminations, dim 
instincts, embryo conceptions, have no place in his brain, or 
vocabulary. The twilight of dubiety never falls upon him. Is 
he orthodox — he has no doubts. Is he an infidel — he has 
none either. Between the affirmative and the negative there 
is no border-land with him. You cannot hover with him upon 
the confines of truth, or wander in the maze of a probable 
argument. He always keeps the path. You cannot make 
excursions with him — for he sets you right. His taste never 
fluctuates. His morality never abates. He cannot compromise, 
or understand middle actions. There can be but a right and 
a wrong. His conversation is as a book. His affirmations 
have the sanctity of an oath. You must speak upon the square 
with him. He stops a metaphor like a suspected person in an 
enemy's country. " A healthy book ! " — said one of his coun- 
trymen to me, who had ventured to give that appellation to 
John Btmcle, — "did I catch rightly what you said.? I have 
heard of a man in health, and of a healthy state of body, but 
I do not see how that epithet can be properly applied to a 
book." Above all, you must beware of indirect expressions 
before a Caledonian. Clap an extinguisher upon your irony, 
if you are unhappily blest with a vein of it. Remember you 
are upon your oath. I have a print of a graceful female after 

Leonardo da Vinci, which I was showing off to Mr. . 

After he had examined it minutely, I ventured to ask him how 
he liked my beauty (a foolish name it goes by among my 
friends) — when he very gravely assured me that ' ' he had 
considerable respect for my character and talents " (so he was 
pleased to say), "but had not given himself much thought 
about the degree of my personal pretensions." The miscon- 
ception staggered me, but did not seem much to disconcert 
him. — Persons of this nation are particularly fond of affirming 
a truth — which nobody doubts. They do not so properly 
affirm, as annunciate it. They do indeed appear to have such 



230 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

a love of truth (as if, like virtue, it were valuable for itself) 
that all truth becomes equally valuable, whether the proposition 
that contains it be new or old, disputed, or such as is impos- 
sible to become a subject of disputation. I was present not long 
since at a party of North Britons, where a son of Burns was 
expected ; and happened to drop a silly expression (in my 
South British way), that I wished it were the father instead 
of the son — when four of them started up at once to inform 
me that '' that was impossible, because he was dead." An 
impracticable wish, it seems, was more than they could con- 
ceive. Swift has hit off this part of their character, namely 
their love of truth, in his biting way, but with an illiberality 
that necessarily confines the passages to the margin. ^ The 
tediousness of these people is certainly provoking. I wonder 
if they ever tire one another ! — In my early life I had a pas- 
sionate fondness for the poetry of Burns. I have sometimes 
foolishly hoped to ingratiate myself with his countrymen by ex- 
pressing it. But I have always found that a true Scot resents 
your admiration of his compatriot, even more than he would 
your contempt of him. The latter he imputes to your " im- 
perfect acquaintance with many of the words which he uses " ; 
and the same objection makes it a presumption in you to sup- 
pose that you can admire him. — Thomson they seem to have 
forgotten. Smollett they have neither forgotten nor forgiven 
for his delineation of Rory and his companion, upon their first 
introduction to our metropolis. — Speak of Smollett as a great 
genius, and they will retort upon you Hume's History com- 
pared with his Continuation of it. What if the historian had 
continued Humphrey Clinker t 

1 There are some people who think they sufficiently acquit themselves and 
entertain their company, with relating facts of no consequence, not at all out 
of the road of such common incidents as happen every day ; and this I have 
observed more frequently among the Scots than any other nation, who are very 
careful not to omit the minutest circumstances of time or place ; which kind 
of discourse, if it were not a little relieved by the uncouth terms and phrases, 
as well as accent and gesture peculiar to that country, would be hardly tolerable. 
— -Hints towards an Essay on Conversatioji. 



CHARLES LAMB 231 

I have, in the abstract, no disrespect for Jews. They are a 
piece of stubborn antiquity, compared with which Stonehenge 
is in its nonage. They date beyond the pyramids. But I 
should not care to be in habits of famihar intercourse with 
any of that nation. I confess that I have not the nerves to 
enter their synagogues. Old prejudices cling about me. I 
cannot shake off the story of Hugh of Lincoln. Centuries 
of injury, contempt, and hate, on the one side, — of cloaked 
revenge, dissimulation, and hate, on the other, between our 
and their fathers, must, and ought to affect the blood of the 
children. I cannot believe it can run clear and kindly yet ; or 
that a few fine words, such as candour, liberality, the light of 
a nineteenth century, can close up the breaches of so deadly 
a disunion. A Hebrew is nowhere congenial to me. He. is 
least distasteful on 'Change — for the mercantile spirit levels 
all distinctions, as all are beauties in the dark. I boldly 
confess that I do not relish the approximation of Jew and 
Christian, which has become so fashionable. The reciprocal 
endearments have, to me, something hypocritical and unnat- 
ural in them. I do not like to see the Church and Synagogue 
kissing and congeeing in awkward postures of an affected 
civility. If tJiey are converted, why do they not come over to 
us altogether ? Why keep up a form of separation, when the 
life of it is fled } If they can sit with us at table, why do 
they keck at our cookery .? I do not understand these half 
convertites. Jews christianising — Christians judaising — puz- 
zle me. I like fish or i^esh. A moderate Jew is a more con- 
founding piece of anomaly than a wet Quaker. The spirit of 

the synagogue is essentially separative. B would have 

been more in keeping if he had abided by the faith of his 
forefathers. There is a fine scorn in his face, which nature 
meant to be of — Christians. The Hebrew spirit is strong 
in him, in spite of his proselytism. He cannot conquer the 
Shibboleth. How it breaks out, when he sings, '' The Chil- 
dren of Israel passed through the Red Sea ! " The auditors, 
for the moment, are as Egyptians to him, and he rides over 



232 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

our necks in triumph. There is no mistaking him. — B 

has a strong expression of sense in his countenance, and it is 
confirmed by his singing. The foundation of his vocal excel- 
lence is sense. He sings with understanding, as Kemble de- 
livered dialogue. He would sing the Commandments, and 
give an appropriate character to each prohibition. His nation, 
in general, have not over-sensible countenances. How should 
they ? — but you seldom see a silly expression among them. 
Gain, and the pursuit of gain, sharpen a man's visage. I 
never heard of an idiot being born among them. — Some 
admire the Jewish female physiognomy. I admire it — but 
with trembling. Jael had those full dark inscrutable eyes. 

In the Negro countenance you will often meet with strong 
traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness towards 
some of these faces — or rather masks — that have looked out 
kindly upon one in casual encounters in the streets and high- 
ways. I love what Fuller beautifully calls — these "images of 
God cut in ebony." But I should not like to associate with 
them, to share my meals and my good-nights with them — 
because they are black. 

I love Quaker ways, and Quaker worship. I venerate the 
Quaker principles. It does me good for the rest of the day 
when I meet any of their people in my path. When I am 
ruffled or disturbed by any occurrence, the sight, or quiet 
voice of a Quaker, acts upon me as a ventilator, lightening 
the air, and taking off a load from the bosom. But I cannot 
like the Quakers (as Desdemona would say) '' to live with 
them." I am all over sophisticated — with humours, fancies, 
craving hourly sympathy. I must have books, pictures, thea- 
tres, chit-chat, scandal, jokes, ambiguities, and a thousand 
whim-whams, which their simpler taste can do without. I 
should starve at their primitive banquet. My appetites are too 
high for the salads which (according to Evelyn) Eve dressed 
for the angel, my gusto too excited 

To sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse. 



CHARLES LAMB 233 

The indirect answers which Quakers are often found to 
return to a question put to them may be explained, I think, 
without the vulgar assumption that they are more given to 
evasion and equivocating than other people. They naturally 
look to their words more carefully, and are more cautious 
of committing themselves. They have a peculiar character to 
keep up on this head. They stand in a manner upon their 
veracity. A Quaker is by law exempted from taking an oath. 
The custom of resorting to an oath in extreme cases, sanc- 
tified as it is by all religious antiquity, is apt (it must be con- 
fessed) to introduce into the laxer sort of minds the notion of 
two kinds of truth — the one applicable to the solemn affairs 
of justice, and the other to the common proceedings of daily 
intercourse. As truth bound upon the conscience by an oath 
can be but truth, so in the common affirmations of the shop 
and the market-place a latitude is expected, and conceded 
upon questions wanting this solemn covenant. Something less 
than truth satisfies. It is common to hear a person say, '' You 
do not expect me to speak as if I were upon my oath." Hence 
a great deal of incorrectness and inadvertency, short of false- 
hood, creeps into ordinary conversation ; and a kind of second- 
ary or laic-truth is tolerated, where clergy-truth — oath-truth, 
by the nature of the circumstances, is not required. A Quaker 
knows none of this distinction. His simple affirmation being 
received, upon the most sacred occasions, without any further 
test, stamps a value upon the words which he is to use upon 
the most indifferent topics of life. He looks to them, natu- 
rally, with more severity. You can have of him no more than 
his word. He knows, if he is caught tripping in a casual 
expression, he forfeits, for himself, at least, his claim to 
the invidious exemption. He knows that his syllables are 
weighed — and how far a consciousness of this particular 
watchfulness, exerted against a person, has a tendency to pro- 
duce indirect answers, and a diverting of the question by hon- 
est means might be illustrated, and the practice justified, by a 
more sacred example than is proper to be adduced upon this 



234 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

occasion. The admirable presence of mind, which is notorious 
in Quakers upon all contingencies, might be traced to this im- 
posed self-watchfulness — if it did not seem rather an humble 
and secular scion of that old stock of religious constancy, 
which never bent or faltered in the Primitive Friends, or gave 
way to the winds of persecution, to the violence of judge or 
accuser, under trials and racking examinations. " You will 
never be the wiser, if I sit here answering your questions till 
midnight," said one of those upright Justices to Penn, who 
had been putting law-cases with a puzzling subtlety. "There- 
after as the answers may be," retorted the Quaker. The as- 
tonishing composure of this people is sometimes ludicrously 
displayed in lighter instances. — I was travelling in a stage 
coach with three male Quakers, buttoned up in the straitest 
non-conformity of their sect. We stopped to bait at Andover, 
where a meal, partly tea apparatus, partly supper, was set be- 
fore us. My friends confined themselves to the tea-table. I 
in my way took supper. When the landlady brought in the 
bill, the eldest of my companions discovered that she had 
charged for both meals. This was resisted. Mine hostess was 
very clamorous and positive. Some mild arguments were used 
on the part of the Quakers, for which the heated mind of the 
good lady seemed by no means a fit recipient. The guard 
came in with his usual peremptory notice. The Quakers pulled 
out their money, and formally tendered it — so much for tea 
— I, in humble imitation, tendering mine — for the supper 
which I had taken. She would not relax in her demand. So 
they all three quietly put up their silver, as did myself, and 
marched out of the room, the eldest and gravest going first, 
with myself closing up the rear, who thought I could not do 
better than follow the example of such grave and warrantable 
personages. We got in. The steps went up. The coach drove 
off. The murmurs of mine hostess, not very indistinctly or 
ambiguously pronounced, became after a time inaudible — and 
now my conscience, which the whimsical scene had for a while 
suspended, beginning to give some twitches, I waited, in the 



CHARLES LAMB 235 

hope that some justification would be offered by these serious 
persons for the seeming injustice of their conduct. To my 
great surprise, not a syllable was dropped on the subject. 
They sat as mute as at a meeting. At length the eldest of 
them broke silence, by inquiring of his next neighbour, " Hast 
thee heard how indigos go at the India House ? " and the 
question operated as a soporific on my moral feeling as far 
as Exeter. 

DREAM-CHILDREN; A REVERIE 

London Magazine^ January, 1822 

Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when 
they were children ; to stretch their imagination to the con- 
ception of a traditionary great-uncle or grandame, whom they 
never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about 
me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother 
Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times 
bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been 
the scene — so at least it was generally believed in that part 
of the country — of the tragic incidents which they had lately 
become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the 
Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and 
their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon 
the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to 
the Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down 
to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with 
no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's 
looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I went on 
to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother 
Field was, how beloved and respected by every body, though 
she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had 
only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be 
said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the 
owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable 
mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining 



236 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

county ; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been 
her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort 
while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was 
nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and 
carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set 
up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to carry away 
the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick 
them up in Lady C.'s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John 
smiled, as much as to say, ''that would be foolish indeed." 
And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was 
attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gen- 
try too, of the neighbourhood for many miles round, to show 
their respect for her memory, because she had been such a 
good and religious woman ; so good indeed that she knew all 
the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a great part of the Testament 
besides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told 
what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother 
Field once was ; and how in her youth she was esteemed the 
best dancer — here Alice's little right foot played an involun- 
tary movement, till upon my looking grave, it desisted — the 
best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, 
called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain ; but it 
could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but 
they were still upright, because she was so good and religious. 
Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone 
chamber of the great lone house ; and how she believed that 
an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight glid- 
ing up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but 
she said "those innocents would do her no harm" ; and how 
frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid 
to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious 
as she — and yet I never saw the infants. Here John ex- 
panded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous. Then 
I told how good she was to all her grand-children, having us 
to the great house in the holydays, where I in particular used 
to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts 



CHARLES LAMB 237 

of the Twelve Caesars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till 
the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be 
turned into marble with them ; how I never could be tired 
with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty 
rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and 
carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out — 
sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had 
almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gar- 
dening man would cross me — and how the nectarines and 
peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever offering to 
pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now 
and then, — and because I had more pleasure in strolling 
about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the 
firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which 
were good for nothing but to look at — or in lying about upon 
the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells around me — 
or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself 
ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that 
grateful warmth — or in watching the dace that darted to and 
fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here 
and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water 

-'' in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings, 
— I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in 
all the sweet flavours of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such 
like common baits of children. Here John slily deposited back 
upon the plate a bunch of grapes, wliich, not unobserved by 
Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed 
willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant. Then 

'^ : in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though 
their great-grandmother Field loved all her grand-children, yet 
in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, 
John L , because he was so handsome and spirited a 

"i youth, and a king to the rest of us ; and, instead of moping 
about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount 
the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no 
bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the 



238 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were 
any out — and yet he loved the old great house and gardens 
too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their 
boundaries — and how their uncle grew up to man's estate as 
brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of every body, 
but of their great-grandmother Field most especially ; and 
how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame- 
footed boy — for. he was a good bit older than me — many a 
mile when I could not walk for pain ; — and how in after life 
he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make 
allowances enough for him when he was impatient, and in 
pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been 
to me when I was lame-footed ; and how when he died, though 
he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a 
great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death ; 
and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but 
afterwards it haunted and haunted me ; and though I did not 
cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would 
have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and 
knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his 
kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be 
alive again, to be quarrelling with him (for we quarrelled 
sometimes), rather than not have him again, and was as un- 
easy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when 
the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell a crying, 
and asked if their little ' mourning which they had on was not 
for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go 
on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their 
pretty dead mother. Then I told how for seven long years, 
in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, 

I courted the fair Alice W n ; and, as much as children 

could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and diffi- 
culty, and denial meant in maidens — when suddenly, turning 
to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes 
with such a reality of re-presentment, that I became in doubt 
which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright 



CHARLES LAMB 239 

hair was ; and while I stood gazing, both the children grad- 
ually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till 
nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the 
uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed 
upon me the effects of speech ; " We are not of Alice, nor of 
thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call 
Bartrum father. We are nothing ; less than nothing, and 
dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait 
upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we 
have existence, and a name" — and immediately awaking, I 
found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where 
I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by 
my side — but John L. (or James Elia) was gone for ever. 



r5^ THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS 

London Magazine^ May, 1822 

I like to meet a sweep — understand me — not a grown 
sweeper — old chimney-sweepers are by no means attractive 
— but one of those tender novices, blooming through their 
first nigritude, the maternal washings not quite effaced from 
the cheek — such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat 
earlier, with their little professional notes sounding like the 
peep peep of a young sparrow ; or liker to the matin lark should 
I pronounce them, in their aerial ascents not seldom anticipating 
the sun-rise } 

I have a kindly yearning toward these dim specks — poor 
blots — innocent blacknesses — 

I reverence these young Africans of our own growth — 
these almost clergy imps, who sport their cloth without as- 
sumption ; and from their little pulpits (the tops of chimneys), 
in the nipping air of a December morning, preach a lesson of 
patience to mankind. 

When a child, what a mysterious pleasure it was to witness 
their operation ! to see a chit no bigger than one's-self enter, 



240 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

one knew not by what process, into what seemed the fauces 
Averni — to pursue him in imagination, as he went sounding 
on through so many dark stifling caverns, horrid shades ! — 
to shudder with the idea that '' now, surely, he must be lost 
for ever! " — to revive at hearing his feeble shout of discov- 
ered day-light — and then (O fulness of delight) running out 
of doors, to come just in time to see the sable phenomenon 
emerge in safety, the brandished weapon of his art victorious 
like some flag waved over a conquered citadel ! I seem to re- 
member having been told that a bad sweep was once left in 
a stack with his brush, to indicate which way the wind blew. 
It was an awful spectacle certainly ; not much unlike the old 
stage direction in Macbeth, where the " Apparition of a child 
crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises." 

Reader, if thou meetest one of these small gentry in thy 
early rambles, it is good to give him a penny. It is better 
to give him two-pence. If it be starving weather, and to the 
proper troubles of his hard occupation, a pair of kibed heels 
(no unusual accompaniment) be superadded, the demand on 
thy humanity will surely rise to a tester. 

There is a composition, the ground-work of which I have 
understood to be the sweet wood 'yclept sassafras. This wood 
boiled down to a kind of tea, and tempered with an infusion 
of milk and sugar, hath to some tastes a delicacy beyond the 
China luxury. I know not how thy palate may relish it ; for 
myself, with every deference to the judicious Mr. Read, who 
hath time out of mind kept open a shop (the only one he 
avers in London) for the vending of this '' wholesome and 
pleasant beverage," on the south side of Fleet Street, as thou 
approachest Bridge Street — the only Salopian house, — I have 
never yet ventured to dip my own particular lip in a basin of 
his commended ingredients — a cautious premonition to the 
olfactories constantly whispering to me that my stomach must 
infallibly, with all due courtesy, decline it. Yet I have seen 
palates, otherwise not uninstructed in dietetical elegances, sup 
it up with avidity. 



CHARLES LAMB 241 

I know not by what particular conformation of the organ it 
happens, but I have always found that this composition is sur- 
prisingly gratifying to the palate of a young chimney-sweeper 

— whether the oily particles (sassafras is slightly oleaginous) 
do attenuate and soften the fuliginous concretions, which are 
sometimes found (in dissections) to adhere to the roof of the 
mouth in these unfledged practitioners ; or whether Nature, 
sensible that she had mingled too much of bitter wood in the 
lot of these raw victims, caused to grow out of the earth her 
sassafras for a sweet lenitive — but so it is, that no possible 
taste or odour to the senses of a young chimney-sweeper can 
convey a delicate excitement comparable to this mixture. Being 
penniless, they will yet hang their black heads over the ascend- 
ing steam, to gratify one sense if possible, seemingly no less 
pleased than those domestic animals — cats — when they purr 
over a new-found sprig of valerian. There is something more 
in these sympathies than philosophy can inculcate. 

Now albeit Mr. Read boasteth, not without reason, that his 
is the only Salopian house ; yet be it known to thee, reader 

— if thou art one who keepest what are called good hours, 
thou art haply ignorant of the fact — he hath a race of indus- 
trious imitators, who from stalls, and under open sky, dispense 
the same savoury mess to humbler customers, at that dead 
time of the dawn, when (as extremes meet) the rake, reeling 
home from his midnight cups, and the hard-handed artisan 
leaving his bed to resume the premature labours of the day, 
jostle, not unfrequently to the manifest disconcerting of the 
former, for the honours of the pavement. It is the time when, 
in summer, between the expired and the not yet relumined 
kitchen-fires, the kennels of our fair metropolis give forth 
their least satisfactory odours. The rake, who wisheth to dis- 
sipate his o'er-night vapours in more grateful coffee, curses 
the ungenial fume, as he passeth ; but the artisan stops to 
taste, and blesses the fragrant breakfast. 

This is Saloop — the precocious herb-woman's darling — 
the delight of the early gardener, who transports his smoking 



242 , THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

cabbages by break of day from Hammersmith to Covent Gar- 
den's famed piazzas — the dehght, and, oh I fear, too often 
the envy, of the unpennied sweep. Him shouldest thou haply 
encounter, with his dim visage pendent over the grateful steam, 
regale him with a sumptuous basin (it will cost thee but three 
half-pennies) and a slice of delicate bread and butter (an added 
halfpenny) — so may thy culinary fires, eased of the o'er-charged 
secretions from thy worse-placed hospitalities, curl up a lighter 
volume to the welkin — so may the descending soot never 
taint thy costly well-ingredienced soups — nor the odious cry, 
quick-reaching from street to street, of the fired chimney, in- 
vite the rattling engines from ten adjacent parishes, to disturb 
for a casual scintillation thy peace and pocket ! 

I am by nature extremely susceptible of street affronts ; the 
jeers and taunts of the populace ; the low-bred triumph they 
display over the casual trip, or splashed stocking, of a gentle- 
man. Yet can I endure the jocularity of a young sweep with 
something more than forgiveness. — In the last winter but 
one, pacing along Cheapside with my accustomed precipitation 
when I walk westward, a treacherous slide brought me upon 
my back in an instant. I scrambled up with pain and shame 
enough — yet outwardly trying to face it down, as if nothing 
had happened — when the roguish grin of one of these young 
wits encountered me. There he stood, pointing me out with 
his dusky finger to the mob, and to a poor woman (I suppose 
his mother) in particular, till the tears for the exquisiteness of 
the fun (so he thought it) worked themselves out at the cor- 
ners of his poor red eyes, red from many a previous weeping, 
and soot-inflamed, yet twinkling through all with such a joy, 
snatched out of desolation, that Hogarth — but Hogarth has 
got him already (how could he miss him ? ) in the March to 
Finchley, grinning at the pie-man — there he stood, as he 
stands in the picture, irremovable, as if the jest was to last for 
ever — with such a maximum of glee, and minimum of mis- 
chief, in his mirth — for the grin of a genuine sweep hath ab- 
solutely no malice in it — that I could have been content, if 



CHARLES LAMB 243 

the honour of a gentleman might endure it, to have remained 
his butt and his mockery till midnight. 

I am by theory obdurate to the seductiveness of what are 
called a fine set of teeth. Every pair of rosy lips (the ladies 
must pardon me) is a casket, presumably holding such jewels ; 
but, methinks, they should take leave to " air " them as frugally 
as possible. The fine lady, or fine gentleman, who show me 
their teeth, show me bones. Yet must I confess, that from 
the mouth of a true sweep a display (even to ostentation) of 
those white and shining ossifications strikes me as an agree- 
able anomaly in manners, and an allowable piece of foppery. 

It is, as when 

A sable cloud 
Turns forth her silver lining on the night. 

It is like some remnant of gentry not quite extinct ; a badge 
of better days ; a hint of nobility : — and, doubtless, under the 
obscuring darkness and double night of their forlorn disguise- 
ment, oftentimes lurketh good blood, and gentle conditions, 
derived from lost ancestry, and a lapsed pedigree. The pre- 
mature apprenticements of these tender victims give but too 
much encouragement, I fear, to clandestine, and almost infan- 
tile abductions ; the seeds of civility and true courtesy, so often 
discernible in these young grafts (not otherwise to be accounted 
for) plainly hint at some forced adoptions ; many noble Rachels 
mourning for their children, even in our days, countenance 
the fact ; the tales of fairy-spiriting may shadow a lamentable 
verity, and the recovery of the young Montagu be but a sol- 
itary instance of good fortune, out of many irreparable and 
hopeless defiliations. 

In one of the state-beds at Arundel Castle, a few years 
since — under a ducal canopy — (that seat of the Howards is 
an object of curiosity to visitors chiefly for its beds, in which 
the late duke was especially a connoisseur) — encircled with 
curtains of delicatest crimson, with starry coronets inwoven — 
folded between a pair of sheets whiter and softer than the 
lap where Venus lulled Ascanius — was discovered by chance, 



244 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

after all methods of search had failed, at noon-day, fast asleep, 
a lost chimney-sweeper. The little creature, having somehow 
confounded his passage among the intricacies of those lordly 
chimneys, by some unknown aperture had alighted upon this 
magnificent chamber ; and, tired with his tedious explorations, 
was unable to resist the delicious invitement to repose, which 
he there saw exhibited ; so, creeping between the sheets very 
quietly, laid his black head upon the pillow, and slept like a 
young Howard. 

Such is the account given to the visitors at the Castle. — 
But I cannot help seeming to perceive a confirmation of what 
I have just hinted at in this story. A high instinct was at 
work in the case, or I am mistaken. Is it probable that a 
poor child of that description, with whatever weariness he 
might be visited, would have ventured, under such a penalty 
as he would be taught to expect, to uncover the sheets of a 
Duke's bed, and deliberately to lay himself down between 
them, when the rug, or the carpet, presented an obvious 
couch, still far above his pretensions — is this probable, I 
would ask, if the great power of nature, which I contend for, 
had not been manifested within him, prompting to the adven- 
ture ? Doubtless this young nobleman (for such my mind mis- 
gives me that he must be) was allured by some memory, not 
amounting to full consciousness, of his condition in infancy, 
when he was used to be lapt by his mother, or his nurse, in 
just such sheets as he there found, into which he was but now 
creeping back as into his proper inctmabida, and resting-place. 
— By no other theory, than by this sentiment of a pre-existent 
state (as I may call it), can I explain a deed so venturous, 
and, indeed, upon any other system, so indecorous, in this 
tender, but unseasonable, sleeper. 

My pleasant friend Jem White was so impressed with a 
belief of metamorphoses like this frequently taking place, that 
in some sort to reverse the wrongs of fortune in these poor 
changelings, he instituted an annual feast of chimney-sweepers, 
at which it was his pleasure to of^ciate as host and waiter. It 



CHARLES LAMB 245 

was a solemn supper held in Smithfield, upon the yearly 
return of the fair of St. Bartholomew. Cards were issued a 
week before to the master-sweeps in and about the metropo- 
lis, confining the invitation to their younger fry. Now and 
then an elderly stripling would get in among us, and be good- 
naturedly winked at ; but our main body were infantry. One 
unfortunate wight, indeed, who relying upon his dusky suit, 
had intruded himself into our party, but by tokens was provi- 
dentially discovered in time to be no chimney-sweeper (all is 
not soot which looks so), was quoited out of the presence with 
universal indignation, as not having on the wedding garment ; 
but in general the greatest harmony prevailed. The place 
chosen was a convenient spot among the pens, at the north 
side of the fair, not so far distant as to be impervious to the 
agreeable hubbub of that vanity ; but remote enough not to be 
obvious to the interruption of every gaping spectator in it. 
The guests assembled about seven. In those little temporary 
parlours three tables were spread with napery, not so fine as 
substantial, and at every board a comely hostess presided with 
her pan of hissing sausages. The nostrils of the young rogues 
dilated at the savour. James White, as head waiter, had 
charge of the first table ; and myself, with our trusty compan- 
ion BiGOD, ordinarily ministered to the other two. There was 
clambering and- jostling, you may be sure, who should get at 
the first table — for Rochester in his maddest days could not 
have done the humours of the scene with more spirit than 
my friend. After some general expression of thanks for the 
honour the company had done him, his inaugural ceremony 
was to clasp the greasy waist of old dame Ursula (the fattest 
of the three), that stood frying and fretting, half-blessing, half- 
cursing " the gentleman," and imprint upon her chaste lips a 
tender salute, whereat the universal host would set up a shout 
that tore the concave, while hundreds of grinning teeth startled 
the night with their brightness. O it was a pleasure to see 
the sable younkers lick in the unctuous meat, with his more 
unctuous sayings — how he would fit the tit-bits to the puny 



246 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

mouths, reserving the lengthier hnks for the seniors — how 
he would intercept a morsel even in the jaws of some young 
desperado, declaring it " must to the pan again to be browned, 
for it was not fit for a gentleman's eating" — how he would 
recommend this slice of white bread, or that piece of kissing- 
crust, to a tender juvenile, advising them all to have a care of 
cracking their teeth, which were their best patrimony, — how 
genteelly he would deal about the small ale, as if it were wine, 
naming the brewer, and protesting, if it were not good he 
should lose their custom ; with a special recommendation to 
wipe the lip before drinking. Then we had our toasts — " The 
King," — the "Cloth," — which, whether they understood or 
not, was equally diverting and flattering ; — and for a crown- 
ing sentiment, which never failed, " May the Brush supersede 
the Laurel ! " All these, and fifty other fancies, which were 
rather felt than comprehended by his guests, would he utter, 
standing upon tables, and prefacing every sentiment with a 
" Gentlemen, give me leave to propose so and so," which was 
a prodigious comfort to those young orphans ; every now and 
then stuffing into his mouth (for it did not do to be squeamish 
on these occasions) indiscriminate pieces of those reeking 
sausages, which pleased them mightily, and was the savouriest 
part, you may believe, of the entertainment. 

Golden lads and lasses must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust — 

James White is extinct, and with him these suppers have 
long ceased. He carried away with him half the fun of the 
world when he died — of my world at least. His old clients 
look for him among the pens ; and, missing him, reproach the 
altered feast of St. Bartholomew, and the glory of Smithfield 
departed for ever. 



CHARLES LAMB 247 

' ■ "^ 

DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING 

London Magazine^ July, 1822 

To mind the inside of a book is to entertain one's self with the forced 
product of another man's brain. Now I think a man of quality and breeding 
may be much amused with the natural sprouts of his own. — Lord Foppington 
ill the Relapse 

An ingenious acquaintance of my own was so much struck 
with this bright sally of his Lordship, that he has left off 
reading altogether, to the great improvement of his originality. 
At the hazard of losing some credit on this head, I must 
confess that I dedicate no inconsiderable portion of my time 
to other people's thoughts. I dream away my life in others' 
speculations. I love to lose myself in other men's minds. 
When I am not walking, I am reading ; I cannot sit and 
think. Books think for me. 

I have no repugnances. Shaftesbury is not too genteel for 
me, nor Jonathan Wild too low. I can read anything which 
I call a book. There are things in that shape which I cannot 
allow for such. 

In this catalogue of books ivhicJi are no books — bib Ha a-bib- 
lia — I reckon Court Calendars, Directories, Pocket Books, 
Draught Boards, bound and lettered on the back. Scientific 
Treatises, Almanacks, Statutes at Large ; the works of Hume, 
Gibbon, Robertson, Beattie, Soame Jenyns, and, generally, all 
those volumes which '' no gentleman's library should be with- 
out " : the Histories of Flavins Josephus (that learned Jew), 
and Paley's Moi'al PhilosopJiy. With these exceptions, I can 
read almost anything. I bless my stars for a taste so catholic, 
so unexcluding. 

I confess that it moves my spleen to see these things in 
books' clothing perched upon shelves, like false saints, usurp- 
ers of true shrines, intruders into the sanctuary, thrusting out 
the legitimate occupants. To reach down a well-bound sem- 
blance of a volume, and hope it is some kind-hearted play- 
book, then, opening what "seem its leaves," to come bolt 



248 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

upon a withering Population Essay. To expect a Steele, or a 
Farquhar, and find — Adam Smith. To view a well-arranged 
assortment of blockheaded Encyclopaedias (Anglicanas or Met- 
ropolitanas) set out in an array of Russia, or Morocco, when 
a tithe of that good leather would comfortably re-clothe my 
shivering folios ; would renovate Paracelsus himself, and enable 
old Raymund Lully to look like himself again in the world. 
I never see these impostors, but I long to strip them, to 
warm my ragged veterans in their spoils. 

To be strong-backed and neat-bound is the desideratum of 
a volume. Magnificence comes after. This, when it can be 
afforded, is not to be lavished upon all kinds of books indis- 
criminately. I would not dress a set of Magazines, for in- 
stance, in full suit. The dishabille, or half-binding (with Russia 
backs ever) is ottr costume. A Shakspeare, or a Milton (un- 
less the first editions), it were mere foppery to trick out in gay 
apparel. The possession of them confers no distinction. The 
exterior of them (the things themselves being so common), 
strange to say, raises no sweet emotions, no tickling sense of 
property in the owner. Thomson's Seasons, again, looks best 
(I maintain it) a little torn, and dog's-eared. How beautiful to 
a genuine lover of reading are the sullied leaves, and wornout 
appearance, nay, the very odour (beyond Russia), if we would 
not forget kind feelings in fastidiousness, of an old '' Circulat- 
ing Library" Tom Jones, or Vicar of Wakefield \ How they 
speak of the thousand thumbs, that have turned over their 
pages wdth delight ! — of the lone sempstress, whom they may 
have cheered (milliner, or harder-working mantua-maker) after 
her long day's needle-toil, running far into midnight, when 
she has snatched an hour, ill-spared from sleep, to steep her 
cares, as in some Lethean cup, in spelling out their enchanting 
contents ! Who would have them a whit less soiled .'* What 
better condition could we desire to see them in .? 

In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from 
binding. Fielding, Smollet, Sterne, and all that class of perpet- 
ually self-reproductive volumes — Great Nature's Stereotypes — 



CHARLES LAMB 249 

we see them individually perish with less regret, because we 
know the copies of them to be ''eterne." But where a book is 
at once both good and rare — where the individual is almost 
the species, and when that perishes, 

We know not where is that Promethean torch 
That can its Hght relumine — 

such a book, for instance, as the Life of the Duke of New- 
castle, by his Duchess — no casket is rich enough, no casing 
sufficiently durable, to honour and keep safe such a jewel. 

Not only rare volumes of this description, which seem hope- 
less ever to be reprinted ; but old editions of writers, such as 
Sir Philip Sydney, Bishop Taylor, Milton in his prose-works, 
Fuller — of whom we have reprints, yet the books themselves, 
though they go about, and are talked of here and there, we 
know, have not endenizened themselves (nor possibly ever will) 
in the national heart, so as to become stock books — it is good 
to possess these in durable and costly covers. I do not care 
for a First Folio of Shakspeare. I rather prefer the common 
editions of Rowe and Tonson without notes, and with plates, 
which, being so execrably bad, serve as maps, or modest re- 
membrancers, to the text ; and without pretending to any 
supposable emulation with it, are so much better than the 
Shakspeare gallery engravings, which did. I have a community 
of feeling with my countrymen about his Plays, and I like those 
editions of him best which have been oftenest tumbled about 
and handled. — On the contrary, I cannot read Beaumont and 
Fletcher but in Folio. The Octavo editions are painful to look 
at. I have no sympathy with them. If they were as much 
read as the current editions of the other poet, I should prefer 
them in that shape to the older one. I do not know a more 
heartless sight than the reprint of the Aftatomy of Melancholy. 
What need was there of unearthing the bones of that fantastic 
old great man, to expose them in a winding-sheet of the new- 
est fashion to modern censure } what hapless stationer could 
dream of Burton ever becoming popular .? — The wretched 



250 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Malone could not do worse, when he bribed the sexton of 
Stratford church to let him white-wash the painted effigy of 
old Shakspeare, which stood there, in rude but lively fashion 
depicted, to the very colour of the cheek, the eye, the eyebrow, 
hair, the very dress he used to wear — the only authentic testi- 
mony we had, however imperfect, of these curious parts and 
parcels of him. They covered him over with a coat of white 
paint. By , if I had been a justice of peace for Warwick- 
shire, I would have clapt both commentator and sexton fast in 
the stocks, for a pair of meddling sacrilegious varlets. 

I think I see them at their work — these sapient trouble- 
tombs. 

Shall I be thought fantastical, if I confess, that the names 
of some of our poets sound sweeter, and have a finer relish 
to the ear — to mine, at least — than that of Milton or of 
Shakspeare ? It may be that the latter are more staled and 
rung upon in common discourse. The sweetest names, and 
which carry a perfume in the mention, are Kit Marlowe, Dray- 
ton, Drummond of Hawthornden, and Cowley. 

Much depends upon zv/ieu and ivhere you read a book. In 
the five or six impatient minutes, before the dinner is quite 
ready, who would think of taking up the Faiiy Queen for a 
stop-gap, or a volume of Bishop Andrewes' sermons } 

Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played 
before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which, 
who listens, had need bring docile thoughts, and purged ears. 

Winter evenings — the world shut out — with less of cere- 
mony the gentle Shakspeare enters. At such a season, the 
Tempest, or his own Winters Tale — 

These two poets you cannot avoid reading aloud — to your- 
self, or (as it chances) to some single person listening. More 
than one — and it degenerates into an audience. 

Books of quick interest, that hurry on for incidents, are for 
the eye to glide over only. It will not do to read them out. 
I could never listen to even the better kind of modern novels 
without extreme irksomeness. 



CHARLES LAMB 251 

A newspaper, read out, is intolerable. In some of the Bank 
offices it is the custom (to save so much individual time) for 
one of the clerks — who is the best scholar — to commence 
upon the Times, or the Chronicle, and recite its entire con- 
tents aloud pro bono ptLblico. With every advantage of lungs 
and elocution, the effect is singularly vapid. In barbers' shops 
and public-houses a fellow will get up, and spell out a para- 
graph which he communicates as some discovery. Another 
follows with his selection. So the entire journal transpires at 
length by piece-meal. Seldom-readers are slow readers, and 
without this expedient no one in the company would probably 
ever travel through the contents of a whole paper. 

Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever lays one 
down without a feeling of disappointment. 

What an eternal time that. gentleman in black, at Nando's, 
keeps the paper ! I am sick of hearing the waiter bawling out 
incessantly, "the Chronicle is in hand, Sir." 

Coming in to an inn at night — having ordered your sup- 
per — what can be more delightful than to find lying in the 
window-seat, left there time out of mind by the carelessness 
of some former guest — two or three numbers of the old Town 
and Cotmtry Magazine, with its amusing tete-a-tete pictures — 

"The Royal Lover and Lady G ;" "The Melting 

Platonic and the Old Beau," — and such like antiquated 
scandal } Would you exchange it — at that time, and in that 
place — for a better book } 

Poor Tobin, who latterly fell blind, did not regret it so much 
for the weightier kinds of reading — the Paradise Lost, or 
Comns, he could have read to him — but he missed the 
pleasure of skimming over with his own eye a magazine, or 
a light pamphlet. 

I should not care to be caught in the serious avenues of 
some cathedral alone and reading Candide. 

I do not remember a more whimsical surprise than having 
been once detected — by a familiar damsel — reclined at my 
ease upon the grass, on Primrose Hill (her Cythera), reading — 



252 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Pamela. There was nothing in the book to make a man seri- 
ously ashamed at the exposure ; but as she seated herself 
down by me, and seemed determined to read in company, I 
could have wished it had been — any other book. We read on 
very sociably for a few pages ; and, not finding the author 
much to her taste, she got up, and — went away. Gentle 
casuist, I leave it to thee to conjecture, whether the blush 
(for there was one between us) was the property of the nymph 
or the swain in this dilemma. From me you shall never get 
the secret. 

I am not much a friend to out-of-doors reading. I cannot 
settle my spirits to it. I knew a Unitarian minister, who was 
generally to be seen upon Snow Hill (as yet Skinner's Street 
IV as not), between the hours of ten and eleven in the morning, 
studying a volume of Lardner. I own this to have been a 
strain of abstraction beyond my reach. I used to admire how 
he sidled along, keeping clear of secular contacts. An illiterate 
encounter with a porter's knot, or a bread basket, would have 
quickly put to flight all the theology I am master of, and have 
left me worse than indifferent to the five points. 

There is a class of street-readers whom I can never con- 
template without affection — the poor gentry, who, not having 
wherewithal to buy or hire a book, filch a little learning at the 
open stalls — the owner, with his hard eye, casting envious 
looks at them all the while, and thinking when they will have 
done. Venturing tenderly, page after page, expecting every 
moment when he shall interpose his interdict, and yet unable 
to deny themselves the gratification, they " snatch a fearful 

joy." Martin B , in this way, by daily fragments, got 

through two volumes of Clarissa, when the stall-keeper damped 
his laudable ambition, by asking him (it was in his younger 
days) whether he meant to purchase the work. M. declares 
that under no circumstance in his life did he ever peruse a 
book with half the satisfaction which he took in those uneasy 
snatches. A quaint poetess of our day has moralised upon this 
subject in two very touching but homely stanzas. 



CHARLES LAMB 253 

I saw a boy with eager eye 

Open a book upon a stall, 

And read, as he 'd devour it all ; 

Which when the stall-man did espy, 

Soon to the boy I heard him call, 

" You, Sir, you never buy a book, 

Therefore in one you shall not look." 

The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh 

He wish'd he never had been taught to read, 

Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need. 

Of sufferings the poor have many, 

Which never can the rich annoy : 

I soon perceiv'd another boy. 

Who look'd as if he 'd not had any 

Food, for that day at least — enjoy 

The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. 

This boy's case, then thought I, is surely harder. 

Thus hungry, longing, thus without a penny. 

Beholding choice of dainty-dressed meat : 

No wonder if he wish he ne'er, had learn 'd to eat. 



-5) 



^l ' MODERN GALLANTRY 

1 

London Magazine^ November. 1822 

In comparing modern with ancient manners, we are pleased 
to compliment ourselves upon the point of gallantry ; a certain 
obsequiousness, or deferential respect, which we are supposed 
to pay to females, as females. 

I shall believe that this principle actuates our conduct, 
when I can forget that in the nineteenth century of the era 
from which we date our civility, we are but just beginning 
to leave off the very frequent practice of whipping females in 
public, in common with the coarsest male offenders. 

I shall believe it to be influential, when I can shut my 
eyes to the fact that in England women are still occasionally 
— hanged. 

I shall believe in it, when actresses are no longer subject 
to be hissed off a stage by gentlemen. 



2 54 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

I shall believe in it, when Dorimant hands a fish-wife 
across the kennel ; or assists the apple-woman to pick up her 
wandering fruit, which some unlucky dray has just dissipated. 

I shall believe in it, when the Dorimants in humbler life, 
who would be thought in their way notable adepts in this 
refinement, shall act upon it in places where they are not 
known, or think themselves not observed — when I shall see 
the traveller for some rich tradesman part with his admired 
box-coat, to spread it over the defenceless shoulders of the 
poor woman who is passing to her parish on the roof of 
the same stage-coach with him, drenched in the rain — when 
I shall no longer see a woman standing up in the pit of a 
London theatre, till she is sick and faint with the exertion, 
with men about her, seated at their ease, and jeering at her 
distress ; till one, that seems to have more manners or con- 
science than the rest, significantly declares " she should be 
welcome to his seat, if she were a little younger and hand- 
somer." Place this dapper warehouseman, or that rider, in a 
circle of their own female acquaintance, and you shall confess 
you have not seen a politer-bred man in Lothbury. 

Lastly, I shall begin to believe that there is some such 
principle influencing our conduct, when more than one-half 
of the drudgery and coarse servitude of the world shall cease 
to be performed by women. 

Until that day comes, I shall never believe this boasted 
point to be anything more than a conventional fiction ; a 
pageant got up between the sexes, in a certain rank, and at 
a certain time of life, in which both find their account equally. 

I shall be even disposed to rank it among the salutary 
fictions of life, when in polite circles I shall see the same 
attentions paid to age as to youth, to homely features as to 
handsome, to coarse complexions as to clear — to the woman, 
as she is a woman, not as she is a beauty, a fortune, or a title. 

I shall believe it to be something more than a name, when 
a well-dressed gentleman in a well-dressed company can advert 
to the topic of female old age without exciting, and intending 



CHARLES LAMB 255 

to excite, a sneer: — when the phrases "antiquated virginity," 
and such a one has " overstood her market," pronounced in 
good company, shall raise immediate offence in man, or 
woman, that shall hear them spoken. 

Joseph Paice, of Bread Street Hill, merchant, and one of 
the Directors of the South-Sea Company — the same to whom 
Edwards, the Shakspeare commentator, has addressed a fine 
sonnet — was the only pattern of consistent gallantry I have 
met with. He took me under his shelter at an early age, and 
bestowed some pains upon me. I owe to his precepts and 
example whatever there is of the man of business (and that is 
not much) in my composition. It was not his fault that I did 
not profit more. ^Though bred a Presbyterian, and brought up 
a merchant, he was the finest gentleman of his time./ He had 
not one system of attention to females in the drawing-room, 
and anotJier in the shop, or at the stall. I do not mean that 
he made no distinction. But he never lost sight of sex, or 
overlooked it in the casualties of a disadvantageous situation. 
I have seen him stand bare-headed — smile if you please — 
to a poor servant girl, while she has been inquiring of him the 
way to some street — in such a posture of unforced civility, as 
neither to embarrass her in the acceptance, nor himself in the 
offer, of it. He was no dangler, in the common acceptation 
of the word, afi:er women : but he reverenced and upheld, in 
every form in which it came before him, zvomanhood. I have 
seen him — nay, smile not — tenderly escorting a market- 
woman, whom he had encountered in a shower, exalting his 
umbrella over her poor basket of fruit, that it might receive no 
damage, with as much carefulness as if she had been a Count- 
ess. To the reverend form of Female Eld he would yield the 
wall (though it were to an ancient beggar-woman) with more 
ceremony than we can afford to show our grandams. He was 
the Preux Chevalier of Age ; the Sir Calidore, or Sir Tristan, 
to those who have no Calidores or Tristans to defend them. 
The roses, that had long faded thence, still bloomed for him 
in those withered and yellow cheeks. 



256 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

He was never married, but in his youth he paid his ad- 
dresses to the beautiful Susan Winstanley — old Winstanley's 
daughter of Clapton — who dying in the early days of their 
courtship, confirmed in him the resolution of perpetual bache- 
lorship. It was during their short courtship, he told me, that 
he had been one day treating his mistress with a profusion 
of civil speeches — the common gallantries — to which kind 
of thing she had hitherto manifested no repugnance — but 
in this instance with no effect. He could not obtain from her 
a decent acknowledgment in return. She rather seemed to 
resent his compliments. He could not set it down to caprice, 
for the lady had always shown herself above that littleness. 
When he ventured on the following day, finding her a little 
better humoured, to expostulate with her on her coldness of 
yesterday, she confessed, with her usual frankness, that she 
had no sort of dislike to his attentions ; that she could even 
endure some high-flown compliments ; that a young woman 
placed in her situation had a right to expect all sort of civil 
things said to her ; that she hoped she could digest a dose 
of adulation, short of insincerity, with as little injury to her 
humility as most young women : but that — a little before he 
had commenced his compliments — she had overheard him by 
accident, in rather rough language, rating a young woman, who 
had not brought home his cravats quite to the appointed time, 
and she thought to herself, " As I am Miss Susan Winstanley, 
and a young lady — a reputed beauty, and known to be a for- 
tune, — I can have my choice of the finest speeches from the 
mouth of this very fine gentleman who is courting me — but 
if I had been poor Mary Such-a-one {iiami7ig the millinef), — 
and had failed of bringing home the cravats to the appointed 
hour — though perhaps I had sat up half the night to forward 
them — what sort of compliments should I have received then t 
And my woman's pride came to my assistance ; and I thought 
that if it were only to do me honour, a female, like myself, 
might have received handsomer usage: and I. was determined 
not to accept any fine speeches, to the compromise of that sex, 



CHARLES LAMB 257 

the belonging to which was after all my strongest claim and 
title to them." 

I think the lady discovered both generosity, and a just way 
of thinking, in this rebuke which she gave her lover ; and I 
have sometimes imagined that the uncommon strain of cour- 
tesy, which through life regulated the actions and behaviour 
of my friend towards all of womankind indiscriminately, owed 
its happy origin to this seasonable lesson from the lips of his 
lamented mistress. 

I wish the whole female world would entertain the same 
notion of these things that Miss Winstanley showed. Then 
we should see something of the spirit of consistent gallantry ; 
and no longer witness the anomaly of the same man — a pat- 
tern of true politeness to a wife — of cold contempt, or rude- 
ness, to a sister — the idolater of his female mistress — the 
disparager and despiser of his no less female aunt, or unfortu- 
nate — still female — maiden cousin. Just so much respect as 
a woman derogates from her own sex, in whatever condition 
placed — her handmaid, or dependent — she deserves to have 
diminished from herself on that score ; and probably will feel 
the diminution, when youth, and beauty, and advantages, not 
inseparable from sex, shall lose of their attraction. What a 
woman should demand of a man in courtship, or after it, is 
first — respect for her as she is a woman ; — and next to that 
— to be respected by him above all other women. But let 
her stand upon her female character as upon a foundation ; 
and let the attentions, incident to individual preference, be 
so many pretty additaments and ornaments — as many, and as 
fanciful, as you please — to that main structure. Let her 
first lesson be — with sweet Susan Winstanley — to reverence 
her sex. 



.XL^ 



j\t-^Jj<^ 



jt....j i 



258 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

OLD CHINA 

London Magazine^ March, 1823 

I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When 
I go to see any great house, I inquire for the china-closet, 
and next for the picture-gallery. I cannot defend the order of 
preference, but by saying that we have all some taste or other, 
of too ancient a date to admit of our remembering distinctly 
that it was an acquired one. I can call to mind the first play, 
and the first exhibition, that I was taken to ; but I am not 
conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were intro- 
duced into my imagination. 

I had no repugnance then — why should I now have t — to 
those little, lawless, azure-tinctured grotesques, that under the 
notion of men and women, float about, uncircumscribed by any 
element, in that world before perspective — a china tea-cup. 

I like to see my old friends — whom distance cannot dimin- 
ish — figuring up in the air (so they appear to our optics), yet 
on terra firnia still — for so we must in courtesy interpret that 
speck of deeper blue, which the decorous artist, to prevent 
absurdity, had made to spring up beneath their sandals. 

I love the men with women's faces, and the women, if 
possible, with still more womanish expressions. 

Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, handing tea to a lady 
from a salver — two miles off. See how distance seems to set 
off respect ! And here the same lady, or another — for likeness 
is identity on tea-cups — is stepping into a little fairy boat, 
moored on the hither side of this calm garden river, with 
a dainty mincing foot, which in a right angle of incidence 
(as angles go in our world) must infallibly land her in the 
midst of a flowery mead — a- furlong off on the other side of 
the same strange stream ! 

Farther on — if far or near can be predicated of their world 
— see horses, trees, pagodas, dancing the hays. 

Here — a cow and rabbit couchant, and co-extensive — so 
objects show, seen through the lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay. 



CHARLES LAMB 259 

I was pointing out to my cousin last evening, over our 
Hyson, (which we are old fashioned enough to drink unmixed 
still of an afternoon) some of these speciosa miractda upon a 
set of extraordinary old blue china (a recent purchase) which 
we were now for the first time using ; and could not help 
remarking how favourable circumstances had been to us of late 
years, that we could afford to please the eye sometimes with 
trifles of this sort — when a passing sentiment seemed to over- 
shade the brows of my companion. I am quick at detecting 
these summer clouds in Bridget. 

'' I wish the good old times would come again," she said, 
'' when we were not quite so rich. I do not mean that I want 
to be poor; but there was a middle state" — so she was pleased 
to ramble on, — ''in which I am sure we were a great deal 
happier. A purchase is but a purchase, now that you have 
money enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be a triumph. 
When we coveted a cheap luxury (and, O ! how much ado I 
had to get you to consent in those times !) — we were used to 
have a debate two or three days before, and to weigh the for 
and against, and think what we might spare it out of, and 
what saving we could hit upon, that should be an equivalent. 
A thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money that 
we paid for it. 

" Do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang 
upon you, till all your friends cried shame upon you, it grew 
so thread-bare — and all because of that folio Beaumont and 
Fletcher, which you dragged home late at night from Barker's 
in Covent Garden .? Do you remember how we eyed it for 
weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and 
had not come to a determination till it was near ten o'clock of 
the Saturday night, when you set off from Islington, fearing 
you should be too late- — and when the old bookseller with some 
grumbling opened his shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he 
was setting bedwards) lighted out the relic from his dusty treas- 
ures — and when you lugged it home, wishing it were twice as 
cumbersome — and when you presented it to me — and when 



26o THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

we were exploring the perfectness of it (collating you called it) 
— and while I was repairing some of the loose leaves with 
paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left till 
daybreak — was there no pleasure in being a poor man ? or can 
those neat black clothes which you wear now, and are so care- 
ful to keep brushed, since we have become rich and finical, 
give you half the honest vanity, with which you flaunted it about 
in that overworn suit — your old corbeau — for four or five 
weeks longer than you should have done, to pacify your con- 
science for the mighty sum of fifteen — or sixteen shillings was 
it? — a great affair we thought it then — which you had lavished 
on the old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book that 
pleases you, but I do not see that you ever bring me home any 
nice old purchases now. 

" When you came home with twenty apologies for laying out 
a less number of shillings upon that print after Lionardo, which 
we christened the Lady Blanch ; when you looked at the pur- 
chase, and thought of the money — and thought of the money, 
and looked again at the picture — was there no pleasure in being 
a poor man .? Now, you have nothing to do but to walk into 
Colnaghi's, and buy a wilderness of Lionardos. Yet do you } 

" Then, do you remember our pleasant walks to Enfield, and 
Potter's Bar, and Waltham, when we had a holyday — holy- 
days, and all other fun, are gone, now we are rich — and the 
little hand-basket in which I used to deposit our day's fare of 
savoury cold lamb and salad — and how you would pry about 
at noon-tide for some decent house, where we might go in, and 
produce our store — only paying for the ale that you must call 
for — and speculate upon the looks of the landlady, and whether 
she was likely to allow us a table-cloth — and wish for such 
another honest hostess, as Izaak Walton has described many a 
one on the pleasant banks of the Lea, when he went a fishing 
— and sometimes they would prove obliging enough, and some- 
times they would look grudgingly upon us — but we had cheer- 
ful looks still for one another, and would eat our plain food 
savourily, scarcely grudging Piscator his Trout Hall .'' Now, when 



CHARLES LAMB 261 

we go out a day's pleasuring, which is seldom moreover, we ride 
part of the way — and go into a fine inn, and order the best of 
dinners, never debating- the expense — which, after all, never 
has half the relish of those chance country snaps, when we were 
at the mercy of uncertain usage, and a precarious welcome. 

*' You are too proud to see a play anywhere now but in the 
pit. Do you remember where it was we used to sit, when we 
saw the Battle of Hexham, and the Sjiri'cnder of Calais, and 
Bannister and Mrs. Bland in the Children in the Wood — 
when we squeezed out our shillings a-piece to sit three or four 
times in a season in the one-shilling gallery — where you felt 
all the time that you ought not to have brought me — and more 
strongly I felt obligation to you for having brought me — and 
the pleasure was the better for a little shame — and when the 
curtain drew up, what cared we for our place in the house, 
or what mattered it where we were sitting, when our thoughts 
were with Rosalind in Arden, or with Viola at the Court of 
Illyria t You used to say that the Gallery was the best place 
of all for enjoying a play socially — that the relish of such ex- 
hibitions must be in proportion to the infrequency of going — 
that the company we met there, not being in general readers 
of plays, were obliged to attend the more, and did attend, to 
what was going on on the stage — because a word lost would 
have been a chasm, which it was impossible for them to fill up. 
With such reflections we consoled our pride then — and I 
appeal to you, whether, as a woman, I met generally with less 
attention and accommodation than I have done since in more 
expensive situations in the house } The getting in, indeed, and 
the crowding up those inconvenient staircases was bad enough, 
— but there was still a law of civility to women recognised to 
quite as great an extent as we ever found in the other passages 
— and how a little difficulty overcome heightened the snug seat, 
and the play, afterwards ! Now we can only pay our money and 
walk in. You cannot see, you say, in the galleries now. I am 
sure we saw, and heard too, well enough then — but sight, and 
all, I think, is gone with our poverty. 



262 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

'' There was pleasure in eating strawberries, before they be- 
came quite common — in the first dish of peas, while they were 
yet dear — to have them for a nice supper, a treat. What treat 
can we have now ? If we were to treat ourselves now — that 
is, to have dainties a little above our means, it would be selfish 
and wicked. It is the very little more that we allow ourselves 
beyond what the actual poor can get at, that makes what I call 
a treat — when two people living together, as we have done, 
now and then indulge themselves in a cheap luxury, which both 
like ; while each apologises, and is willing to take both halves 
of the blame to his single share. I see no harm in people mak- 
ing much of themselves in that sense of the word. It may give 
them a hint how to make much of others. But now — what 
I mean by the word — we never do make much of ourselves. 
None but the poor can do it. I do not mean the veriest poor 
of all, but persons as we were, just above poverty. 

'' I know what you were going to say, that it is mighty 
pleasant at the end of the year to make all meet, — and much 
ado we used to have every Thirty-first Night of December to 
account for our exceedings — many a long face did you make 
over your puzzled accounts, and in contriving to make it out 
how we had spent so much — or that we had not spent so 
much — or that it was impossible we should spend so much 
next year — and still we found our slender capital decreasing 
— but then, betwixt ways, and projects, and compromises of one 
sort or another, and talk of curtailing this charge, and doing 
without that for the future — and the hope that youth brings, 
and laughing spirits (in which you were never poor till now) we 
pocketed up our loss, and in conclusion, with ' lusty brimmers ' 
(as you used to quote it out of hearty cheerftd Mr. Cotton, as 
you called him), we used to welcome in the ' coming guest.' 
Now we have no reckoning at all at the end of the old year — 
no flattering promises about the new year doing better for us." 

Bridget is so sparing of her speech on most occasions that 
when she gets into a rhetorical vein, I am careful how I in- 
terrupt it. I could not help, however, smiling at the phantom 



CHARLES LAMB 263 

of wealth which her dear imagination had conjured up out of 
a clear income of a poor — hundred pounds a year. ''It is 
true we were happier when we were poorer, but we were also 
younger, my cousin. I am afraid we must put up with the 
excess, for if we were to shake the superflux into the sea, 
we should not much mend ourselves. That we had much to 
struggle with, as we grew up together, we have reason to be 
most thankful. It strengthened, and knit our compact closer. 
We could never have been what we have been to each other, 
if we had always had the sufficiency which you now complain 
of. The resisting power — those natural dilations of the youth- 
ful spirit, which circumstances cannot straiten — with us are 
long since passed away. Competence to age is supplementary 
youth ; a sorry supplement, indeed, but I fear the best that is 
to be had. We must ride where we formerly walked : live 
better, and lie softer — and shall be wise to do so — than we 
had means to do in those good old days you speak of. Yet 
could those days return — could you and I once more walk 
our thirty miles a-day — could Bannister and Mrs. Bland again 
be young, and you and I be young to see them — could the 
good old one-shilling gallery days return — they are dreams, 
my cousin, now — but could you and I at this moment, instead 
of this quiet argument, by our well-carpeted fire-side, sitting on 
this luxurious sofa — be once more struggling up those incon- 
venient staircases, pushed about, and squeezed, and elbowed 
by the poorest rabble of poor gallery scramblers — could I 
once more hear those anxious shrieks of yours — and the de- 
licious Thank God, we are safe, which always followed when 
the topmost stair, conquered, let in the first light of the whole 
cheerful theatre down beneath us — I know not the fathom 
line that ever touched a descent so deep as I would be willing 
to bury more wealth in than Croesus had, or the great Jew 

R is supposed to have, to purchase it. And now do just 

look at that merry little Chinese waiter holding an umbrella, 
big enough for a bed-tester, over the head of that pretty insipid 
half-Madonaish chit of a lady in that very blue summer house." 



264/^ THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

\y' POOR RELATIONS 

•nTX^ London Magazine^ May, 1823 

-^ A Poor Relation — is the most irrelevant thing in nature, — ■ 

a piece of impertinent correspondency, — an odious approx- 
imation, — a haunting conscience, — a preposterous shadow, 
lengthening in the noontide of our prosperity, — an unwel- 
come remembrancer, — a perpetually recurring mortification, — 
a drain on your purse, — a more intolerable dun upon your 
pride, — a drawback upon success, — a rebuke to your rising, 

— a stain in your blood, — a blot on your 'scutcheon, — 
a rent in your garment, — a death's head at your banquet, — 
Agathocles' pot, — a Mordecai in your gate, — a Lazarus at 
your door, — a lion in your path, — a frog in your chamber, 

— a fly in your ointment, — a mote in your eye, — a triumph 
to your enemy, an apology to your friends, — the one thing 
not needful, — the hail in harvest, — the ounce of sour in a 
pound of sweet. 

He is known by his knock. Your heart telleth you " That 

is Mr.- ." A rap, between familiarity and respect; that 

demands, and, at the same time, seems to despair of, enter- 
tainment. He entereth smiling and — embarrassed. He hold- 
eth out his hand to you to shake, and — draweth it back again. 
He casually looketh in about dinner-time — when the table is 
full. He offereth to go away, seeing you have company — 
but is induced to stay. He filleth a chair, and your visitor's 
'two children are accommodated at a side table. He never 
Cometh upon open days, when your wife says with some com- 
placency, "My dear, perhaps Mr. will drop in to-day." 

He remembereth birthdays — and professeth he is fortunate 
to have stumbled upon one. He declareth against fish, the 
turbot being small — yet suffereth himself to be importuned 
into a slice against his first resolution. He sticketh by the 
port — yet will be prevailed upon to empty the remainder 
glass of claret, if a stranger press it upon him. He is a puzzle 
to the servants, who are fearful of being too obsequious, or 



CHARLES LAMB 265 

not civil enougli, to liim. The guests think ''they have seen 
him before." Everyone speculateth upon his condition ; and 
the most part take him to be — a tide waiter. He calleth you 
by your Christian name, to imply that his other is the same 
with your own. He is too familiar by half, yet you wish he 
had less diffidence. With half the familiarity he might pass 
for a casual dependent ; with more boldness he w^ould be in 
no danger of being taken for what he is. He is too humble 
for a friend, yet taketh on him more state than befits a client. 
He is a worse guest than a country tenant, inasmuch as he 
bringeth up no rent — yet 't is odds, from his garb and de- 
meanour, that your guests take him for one. He is asked to 
make one at the whist table ; refuseth on the score of poverty, 
and — resents being left out. When the company break up 
he proffereth to go for a coach — and lets the servant go. 
He recollects your grandfather ; and will thrust in some mean 
and quite unimportant anecdote of — the family. He knew it 
when it was not quite so flourishing as "he is blest in seeing 
it now." He reviveth past situations to institute what he call- 
eth — favourable comparisons. With a reflecting sort of con- 
gratulation, he will inquire the price of your furniture ; and 
insults you with a special commendation of your window- 
curtains. He is of opinion that the urn is the more elegant 
shape, but, after all, there was something more comfortable 
about the old tea-kettle — which you must remember. He dare 
say you must find a great convenience in having a carriage of 
your own, and appealeth to your lady if it is not so. Inquireth 
if you have had your arms done on vellum yet ; and did not 
know, till lately, that such-and-such had been the crest of the 
family. His memory is unseasonable ; his compliments per- 
verse ; his talk a trouble ; his stay pertinacious ; and when he 
goeth away, you dismiss his chair into a corner, as precipitately 
as possible, and feel fairly rid of two nuisances. 

There is a worse evil under the sun, and that is — a female 
Poor Relation. You may do something with the other ; you 
may pass him off tolerably well ; but your indigent she-relative 



266 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

is hopeless. ''He is an old humourist," you may say, ''and 
affects to go threadbare. His circumstances are better than 
folks would take them to be. You are fond of having a Char- 
acter at your table, and truly he is one." But in the indica- 
tions of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman 
dresses below herself from caprice. The truth must out with- 
out shufifiing. "She is plainly related to the L s; or 

what does she at their house } " She is, in all probability, 
your wife's cousin. Nine times out of ten, at least, this is the 
case. Her garb is something between a gentlewoman and a 
beggar, yet the former evidently predominates. She is most 
provokingly humble, and ostentatiously sensible to her inferi- 
ority. He may require to be repressed sometimes — aliqtiando 
S7ifflaini7iandus erat — but there is no raising her. You send 
her soup at dinner, and she begs to be helped — after the 

gentlemen. Mr. requests the honour of taking wine with 

her ; she hesitates between Port and Madeira, and chooses the 
former — because he does. She calls the servant Sir\ and 
insists on not troubling him to hold her plate. The house- 
keeper patronises her. The children's governess takes upon 
her to correct her, when she has mistaken the piano for 
a harpsichord. 

Richard Amlet, Esq., in the play, is a notable instance of 
the disadvantages to which this chimerical notion of affinity 
constituting a claim to acquaintance may subject the spirit 
of a gentleman. A little foolish blood is all that is betwixt 
him and a lady of great estate. His stars are perpetually 
crossed by the malignant maternity of an old woman, who 
persists in calling him " her son Dick." But she has where- 
withal in the end to recompense his indignities, and float him 
again upon the brilliant surface, under which it had been her 
seeming business and pleasure all along to sink him. All 
men, besides, are not of Dick's temperament. I knew an 
Amlet in real life, who, wanting Dick's buoyancy, sank indeed. 

Poor W was of my own standing at Christ's, a fine classic, 

and a youth of promise. If he had a blemish, it was too much 



CHARLES LAMB 267 

pride ; but its quality was inoffensive ; it was not of that sort 
which hardens the heart, and serves to keep inferiors at a dis- 
tance ; it only sought to ward off derogation from itself. It 
was the principle of self-respect carried as far as it could go, 
without infringing upon that respect which he would have 
every one else equally maintain for himself. He would have 
you" to think alike with him on this topic. Many a quarrel 
have I had with him, when we were rather older boys, and 
our tallness made us more obnoxious to observation in the 
blue clothes, because I would not thread the alleys and blind 
ways of the town with him to elude notice, when we have 
been out together on a holiday in the streets of this sneering 

and prying metropolis. W went, sore with these notions, 

to Oxford, where the dignity and sweetness of a scholar's life, 
meeting with the alloy of a humble introduction, wrought in 
him a passionate devotion to the place, with a profound aver- 
sion from the society. The servitor's gown (worse than his 
school array) clung to him with Nessian venom. He thought 
himself ridiculous in a garb under which Latimer must have 
walked erect ; and in which Hooker, in his young days, possibly 
flaunted in a vein of no discommendable vanity. In the depths 
of college shades, or in his lonely chamber, the poor student 
shrunk from observation. He found shelter among books, 
which insult not ; and studies, that ask no questions of a 
youth's finances. He was lord of his library, and seldom 
cared for looking out beyond his domains. The healing influ- 
ence of studious pursuits was upon him, to soothe and to 
abstract. He was almost a healthy man ; when the wayward- 
ness of his fate broke out against him with a second and 

worse malignity. The father of W had hitherto exercised 

the humble profession of house-painter at N , near Ox- 
ford. A supposed interest with some of the heads of colleges 
had now induced him to take up his abode in that city, with 
the hope of being employed upon some public works which 
were talked of. From that moment, I read in the countenance 
of the young man the determination which at length tore him 



268 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

from academical pursuits for ever. To a person unacquainted 
with our Universities, the distance between the gownsmen and 
the townsmen, as they are called — the trading part of the 
latter especially — is carried to an excess that would appear 

harsh and incredible. The temperament of W 's father 

was diametrically the reverse of his own. Old W was a 

little, busy, cringing tradesman, who, with his son upon his 
arm, would stand bowing and scraping, cap in hand, to any- 
thing that wore the semblance of a gown — insensible to the 
winks and opener remonstrances of the young man, to whose 
chamber-fellow, or equal in standing, perhaps, he was thus 
obsequiously and gratuitously ducking. Such a state of things 

could not last. W must change the air of Oxford or be 

suffocated. He chose the former ; and let the sturdy moralist, 
who strains the point of the filial duties as high as they can 
bear, censure the dereliction ; he cannot estimate the struggle. 

I stood with W , the last afternoon I ever saw him, under 

the eaves of his paternal dwelling. It was in the fine lane 

leading from the High Street to the back of college, where 

W kept his rooms. He seemed thoughtful, and more rec- 
onciled. I ventured to rally him — finding him in a better 
mood — upon a representation of the Artist Evangelist, which 
the old man, whose affairs were beginning to flourish, had 
caused to be set up in a splendid sort of frame over his really 
handsome shop, either as a token of prosperity, or badge of 

gratitude to his saint. W looked up at the Luke, and, 

like Satan, ''knew his mounted sign — and fled." A letter 
on his father's table the next morning announced that he had 
accepted a commission in a regiment about to embark for 
Portugal. He was among the first who perished before the 
walls of St, Sebastian. 

I do not know how, upon a subject which I began with 
treating half seriously, I should have fallen upon a recital so 
eminently painful ; but this theme of poor relationship is re- 
plete with so much matter for tragic as well as comic associations, 
that it is difficult to keep the account distinct without blending. 



CHARLES LAMB 269 

The earliest impressions which I received on this matter are 
certainly not attended with anything painful, or very humiliating, 
in the recalling. At my father's table (no very splendid one) 
was to be found, every Saturday, the mysterious figure of an 
aged gentleman, clothed in neat black, of a sad yet comely 
appearance. His deportment was of the essence of gravity ; 
his words few or none ; and I was not to make a noise in his 
presence. I had little inclination to have done so — for my 
cue was to admire in silence. A particular elbow chair was 
appropriated to him, which was in no case to be violated. A 
peculiar sort of sweet pudding, which appeared on no other 
occasion, distinguished the days of his coming. I used to 
think him a prodigiously rich man. All I could make out 
of him was that he and my father had been schoolfellows a 
world ago at Lincoln, and that he came from the Mint. The 
Mint I knew to be a place where all the money was coined 
— and I thought he was the owner of all that money. Awful 
ideas of the Tower twined themselves about his presence. He 
seemed above human infirmities and passions. A sort of 
melancholy grandeur invested him. From some inexplicable 
doom I fancied him obliged to go about in an eternal suit of 
mourning ; a captive — a stately being, let out of the Tower 
on Saturdays. Often have I wondered at the temerity of my 
father, who, in spite of an habitual general respect which 
we all in common manifested towards him, would venture now 
and then to stand up against him in some argument, touching 
their youthful days. The houses of the ancient city of Lincoln 
are divided (as most of my readers know) between the dwellers 
on the hill, and in the valley. This marked distinction formed 
an obvious division between the boys who lived above (however 
brought together in a common school) and the boys whose 
paternal residence was on the plain ; a sufficient cause of 
hostility in the code of these young Grotiuses. My father had 
been a leading Mountaineer ; and would still maintain the 
general superiority, in skill and hardihood, of the Above Boys 
(his own faction) over the Below Boys (so were they called). 



2/0 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

of which party his contemporary had been a chieftain. Many 
and hot were the skirmishes on this topic — the only one upon 
which the old gentleman was ever brought out — and bad blood 
bred ; even sometimes almost to the recommencement (so I 
expected) of actual hostilities. But my father, who scorned to 
insist upon advantages, generally contrived to turn the conver- 
sation upon some adroit by-commendation of the old Minster ; 
in the general preference of which, before all other cathedrals 
in the island, the dweller on the hill, and the plain-born, could 
meet on a conciliating level, and lay down their less important 
differences. Once only I saw the old gentleman really ruffled, 
and I remembered with anguish the thought that came over 
me : " Perhaps he will never come here again." He had been 
pressed to take another plate of the viand, which I have already 
mentioned as the indispensable concomitant of his visits. He 
had refused with a resistance amounting to rigour — when 
my aunt, an old Lincolnian, but who had something of this in 
common with my cousin Bridget, that she would sometimes 
press civility out of season — uttered the following memorable 
application — ''Do take another slice, Mr. Billet, for you do 
not get pudding every day." The old gentleman said nothing 
at the time — but he took occasion in the course of the eve- 
ning, when some argument had intervened between them, to 
utter with an emphasis which chilled the company, and w^hich 
chills me now as I write it — '' Woman, you are superannuated." 
John Billet did not survive long, after the digesting of this 
affront ; but he survived long enough to assure me that peace 
was actually restored ! and, if I remember aright, another 
pudding was discreetly substituted in the place of that which 
had occasioned the offence. He died at the Mint (anno 1781) 
where he had long held, what he accounted, a comfortable 
independence ; and with five pounds, fourteen shillings, and 
a penny, which were found in his escrutoire after his decease, 
left the world, blessing God that he had enough to bury him, 
and that he had never been obliged to any man for a sixpence. 
This was — a Poor Relation. 



CHARLES LAMB 271 

THE SUPERANNUATED MAN 

London Magazine^ May, 1825 

Sera tamen respexit libertas. — Virgil 
A Clerk I was in London gay. — O'Keefe 

If peradventure, Reader, it has been thy lot to waste the 
golden years of thy life — thy shining youth — in the irksome 
confinement of an office ; to have thy prison days prolonged 
through middle age down to decrepitude and silver hairs, 
without hope of release or respite ; to have lived to forget 
that there are such things as holidays, or to remember them 
but as the prerogatives of childhood ; then, and then only, will 
you be able to appreciate my deliverance. 

It is now six and thirty years since I took my seat at the 
desk in Mincing Lane. Melancholy was the transition at four- 
teen from the abundant playtime, and the frequently interven- 
ing vacations of school days, to the eight, nine, and sometimes 
ten hours' a-day attendance at a counting-house. But time par- 
tially reconciles us to anything. I gradually became content — 
doggedly contented, as wild animals in cages. 

It is true I had my . Sundays to myself ; but Sundays, ad- 
mirable as the institution of them is for purposes of worship, 
are for that very reason the very worst adapted for days of 
unbending and recreation. In particular, there is a gloom for 
me attendant upon a city Sunday, a weight in the air. I miss 
the cheerful cries of London, the music, and the ballad-singers 
— the buzz and stirring murmur of the streets. Those eternal 
bells depress me. The closed shops repel me. Prints, pic- 
tures, all the glittering and endless succession of knacks and 
gewgaws, and ostentatiously displayed wares of tradesmen, 
which make a week-day saunter through the less busy parts 
of the metropolis so delightful — are shut out. No book-stalls 
deliciously to idle over — No busy faces to recreate the idle 
man who contemplates them ever passing by — the very face 
of business a charm by contrast to his temporary relaxation 
from it. Nothing to be seen but unhappy countenances — 



272 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

or half-happy at best — of emancipated 'prentices and little 
tradesfolks, with here and there a servant maid that has got 
leave to go out, who, slaving all the week, with the habit has 
lost almost the capacity of enjoying a free hour ; and livelily ex- 
pressing the hollowness of a day's pleasuring. The very strollers 
in the fields on that day look anything but comfortable. 

But besides Sundays I had a day at Easter, and a day at 
Christmas, with a full week in the summer to go and air my- 
self in my native fields of Hertfordshire. This last was a great 
indulgence ; and the prospect of its recurrence, I believe, alone 
kept me up through the year, and made my durance tolerable. 
But when the week came round, did the glittering phantom of 
the distance keep touch with me 1 or rather was it not a series 
of seven uneasy days, spent in restless pursuit of pleasure, and 
a wearisome anxiety to find out how to make the most of 
them .? Where was the quiet, where the promised rest ? Be- 
fore I had a taste of it, it was vanished. I was at the desk 
again, counting upon the fifty-one tedious weeks that must 
intervene before such another snatch would come. Still the 
prospect of its coming threw something of an illumination 
upon the darker side of my captivity. Without it, as I have 
said, I could scarcely have sustained my thraldom. 

Independently of the rigours of attendance, I have ever 
been haunted with a sense (perhaps a mere caprice) of inca- 
pacity for business. This, during my latter years, had increased 
to such a degree, that it was visible in all the lines of my 
countenance. My health and my good spirits flagged. I had 
perpetually a dread of some crisis, to which I should be found 
unequal. Besides my daylight servitude, I served over again 
all night in my sleep, and would awake with terrors of imagi- 
nary false entries, errors in my accounts, and the like. I was 
fifty years of age, and no prospect of emancipation presented 
itself. I had grown to my desk, as it were : and the wood 
had entered into my soul. 

My fellows in the office would sometimes rally me upon 
the trouble legible in my countenance ; but I did not know 



CHARLES LAMB 273 

that it had raised the suspicions of any of my employers, when 
on the 5 th of last month, a day ever to be remembered by me, 

L , the junior partner in the firm, calling me on one side, 

directly taxed me with my bad looks, and frankly inquired the 
cause of them. So taxed, I honestly made confession of my 
infirmity, and added that I was afraid I should eventually be 
obliged to resign his service. He spoke some words of course 
to hearten me, and there the matter rested. A whole week I 
remained labouring under the impression that I had acted im- 
prudently in my disclosure ; that I had foolishly given a handle 
against myself, and had been anticipating my own dismissal. 
A week passed in this manner, the most anxious one, I verily 
believe, in my whole life, when on the evening of the 1 2th of 
April, just as I was about quitting my desk to go home (it 
might be about eight o'clock) I received an awful summons to 
attend the presence of the whole assembled firm in the for- 
midable back parlour. I thought now my time is surely come, 
I have done for myself, I am going to be told that they have 

no longer occasion for me. L , I could see, smiled at the 

terror I was in, w^hich was a little relief to me, — when to my 

utter astonishment B , the eldest partner, began a formal 

harangue to me on the length of my services, my very meri- 
torious conduct during the whole of the time (the deuce, 
thought I, how did he find out that ? I protest I never had 
the confidence to think as much). He went on to descant 
on the expediency of retiring at a certain time of life (how 
my heart panted !), and asking me a few questions as to the 
amount of my own property, of which I have a little, ended 
with a proposal, to which his three partners nodded a grave 
assent, that I should accept from the house, which I had 
served so well, a pension for life to the amount of two-thirds 
of my accustomed salary — a magnificent offer ! I do not 
know what I answered between surprise and gratitude, but it 
was understood that I accepted their proposal, and I was told 
that I was free from that hour to leave their service. I stam- 
y mered out a bow, and at just ten minutes after eight I went 



274 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

home — for ever. This noble benefit — gratitude forbids me 
to conceal their names — I owe to the kindness of the 
most munificent firm in the world — the house of Boldero, 
Merry weather, Bosanquet, and Lacy. 

Esto perpetua I 

For the first day or two I felt stunned, overwhelmed. I 
could only apprehend my felicity ; I was too confused to 
taste it sincerely. I wandered about, thinking I was happy, 
and knowing that I was not. I was in the condition of a 
prisoner in the Old Bastile, suddenly let loose after a forty 
years' confinement. I could scarce trust myself with myself. 
It was like passing out of Time into Eternity — for it is a sort 
of Eternity for a man to have his Time all to himself. It 
seemed to me that I had more time on my hands than I could 
ever manage. From a poor man, poor in Time, I was sud- 
denly lifted up into a vast revenue ; I could see no end of 
my possessions ; I wanted some steward, or judicious bailiff, to 
manage my estates in Time for me. And here let me caution 
persons grown old in active business, not lightly, nor without 
weighing their own resources, to forego their customary em- 
ployment all at once, for there may be danger in it. I feel it 
by myself, but I know that my resources are sufficient ; and 
now that those first giddy raptures have subsided, I have a 
quiet home-feeling of the blessedness of my condition. I am 
in no hurry. Having all holidays, I am as though I had none. 
If Time hung heavy upon me, I could walk it away ; but I 
do 7iot walk all day long, as I used to do in those old tran- 
sient holidays, thirty miles a day, to make the most of them. 
If Time were troublesome, I could read it away, but I do not 
read in that violent measure, with which, having no Time my 
own but candlelight Time, I used to weary out my head and 
eye-sight in by-gone winters. I walk, read, or scribble (as now) 
just when the fit seizes me. I no longer hunt after pleasure ; 
I let it come to me. I am like the man 

that 's born, and has his years come to him, 



In some green desert. 



CHARLES LAMB 275 

"Years," you will say; "what is this superannuated simple- 
ton calculating upon ? He has already told us he is past fifty." 

I have indeed lived nominally fifty years, but deduct out of 
them the hours which I have lived to other people, and not 
to myself, and you will find me still a young fellow, j For that 
is the only true Time, which a man can properly call his own, 
that which he has all to himself !|\ the rest, though in some 
sense he may be said to live it, is other people's time, not his. 
The remnant of my poor days, long or short, is at least mul- 
tiplied for me threefold. My ten next years, if I stretch so 
far, will be as long as any preceding thirty. 'T is a fair rule- 
of -three sum. 

Among the strange fantasies which beset me at the com- 
mencement of my freedom, and of which all traces are not 
yet gone, one was that a vast tract of time had intervened 
since I quitted the Counting-House. I could not conceive of 
it as an affair of yesterday. The partners, and the clerks with 
whom I had for so many years, and for so many hours in each 
day of the year been closely associated — being suddenly re- 
moved from them — they seemed as dead to me. There is 
a fine passage, which may serve to illustrate this fancy, in a 
Tragedy by Sir Robert Howard, speaking of a friend's death : 

'T was but just now he went away ; 



I have not since had time to shed a tear ; 
And yet the distance does the same appear 
As if he had been a thousand years from me. 
Time takes no measure in Eternity. 

To dissipate this awkward feeling, I have been fain to go 
among them once or twice since ; to visit my old desk-fellows 
— my co-brethren of the quill — that I had left below in the 
state militant. Not all the kindness with which they received 
me could quite restore to me that pleasant familiarity which I 
had heretofore enjoyed among them. We cracked soipe of our 
old jokes, but methought they went off but faintly. My old desk, 
the peg where I hung my hat, were appropriated to another. 
I knew it must be, but I could not take it kindly. D 1 take 



276 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

me if I did not feel some remorse — beast, if I had not, — 
at quitting my old compeers, the faithful partners of my toils 
for six and thirty years, that smoothed for me with their jokes 
and conundrums the ruggedness of my professional road. Had 
it been so rugged then after all ? or was I a coward simply ? 
Well, it is too late to repent ; and I also know that these sug- 
gestions are a common fallacy of the mind on such occasions. 
But my heart smote me. I had violently broken the bands be- 
twixt us. It was at least not courteous. I shall be some time 
before I get quite reconciled to the separation. Farewell, old 
cronies, yet not for long, for again and again I will come among 

ye, if I shall have your leave. Farewell, Ch , dry, sarcastic, 

and friendly ! Do , mild, slow to move, and gentlemanly ! 

PI , officious to do, and to volunteer, good services ! — and 

thou, thou dreary pile, fit mansion for a Gresham or a Whit- 
tington of old, stately House of Merchants ; with thy laby- 
rinthine passages, and light-excluding, pent-up offices, where 
candles for one half the year supplied the place of the sun's 
light ; unhealthy contributor to my weal, stern fosterer of my 
living, farewell ! In thee remain, and not in the obscure collec- 
tion of some wandering bookseller, my ''works"! There let 
them rest, as I do from my labours, piled on thy massy shelves, 
more MSS. in folio than ever Aquinas left, and full as useful ! 
My mantle I bequeath among ye. 

A fortnight has passed since the date of my first communica- 
tion. At that period I was approaching to tranquillity, but had 
not reached it. I boasted of a calm indeed, but it was compara- 
tive only. Something of the first flutter was left ; an unsettling 
sense of novelty ; the dazzle to weak eyes of unaccustomed 
light. I missed my old chains, forsooth, as if they had been 
some necessary part of my apparel. I was a poor Carthusian, 
from strict cellular discipline suddenly by some revolution re- 
turned upon the world. I am now as if I had never been other 
than my own master. It is natural to me to go where I please, 
to do what I please. I find myself at eleven o'clock in the day 
in Bond Street, and it seems to me that I have been sauntering 



CHARLES LAMB 277 

there at that very hour for years past. I digress into Soho, 
to explore a book-stall. Methinks I have been thirty years a 
collector. There is nothing strange nor new in it. I find my- 
self before a fine picture in the morning. Was it ever otherwise ? 
What is become of Fish Street Hill ? Where is Fenchurch 
Street ? Stones of old Mincing Lane which I have worn with 
my daily pilgrimage for six and thirty years, to the footsteps of 
what toil-worn clerk are your everlasting flints now vocal ? I in- 
dent the gayer flags of Pall Mall. It is 'Change time, and I 
am strangely among the Elgin marbles. It was no hyperbole 
when I ventured to compare the change in my condition to a 
passing into another world. Time stands still in a manner to 
me. I have lost all distinction of season. I do not know the 
day of the week, or of the month. Each day used to be indi- 
vidually felt by me in its reference to the foreign post days ; 
in its distance from, or propinquity to the next Sunday. I had 
my Wednesday feelings, my Saturday nights' sensations. The 
genius of each day was upon me distinctly during the whole of 
it, affecting my appetite, spirits, &c. The phantom of the next 
day, with the dreary five to follow, sate as a load upon my poor 
Sabbath recreations. What charm has washed the Ethiop white ? 
What is gone of Black Monday ? All days are the same. Sun- 
day itself — that unfortunate failure of a holiday as it too often 
proved, what with my sense of its fugitiveness, and over-care 
to get the greatest quantity of pleasure out of it — is melted 
down into a week day. I can spare to go to church now, with- 
out grudging the huge cantle which it used to seem to cut out 
of the holiday. I have Time for everything. I can visit a sick 
friend. I can interrupt the man of much occupation when he 
is busiest. I can insult over him with an invitation to take a 
day's pleasure with me to Windsor this fine May-morning. It 
is Lucretian pleasure to behold the poor drudges, whom I have 
left behind in the world, carking and caring ; like horses in a 
mill, drudging on in the same eternal round — and what is it 
all for ? A man can never have too much Time to himself, 
nor too little to do. Had I a little son, I would christen him 



2/8 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

NOTHING-TO-DO ; he should do nothing. Man, I verily believe, is 
out of his element as long as he is operative. I am altogether 
for the life contemplative. Will no kindly earthquake come and 
swallow up those accursed cotton mills } Take me that lumber 
of a desk there, and bowl it down 

As low as to the fiends. 

I am no longer ***** *^ clerk to the firm of, &c. I am 
Retired Leisure. I am to be met with in trim gardens. I am 
already come to be known by my vacant face and careless ges- 
ture, perambulating at no fixed pace nor with any settled pur- 
pose. I walk about ; not to and from. They tell me, a certain 
awi dig7titate air, that has been buried so long with my other 
good parts, has begun to shoot forth in my person. I grow into 
gentility perceptibly. When I take up a newspaper it is to read 
the state of the opera. Opus operatitm est. I have done all that 
I came into this world to do. I have worked task-work, and 
have the rest of the day to myself. 



JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859) 

AUTUMNAL COMMENCEMENT OF FIRES 

Indicator^ October 20, 1819 

How pleasant it is to have fires again ! We have not time 
to regret summer, when the cold fogs begin to force upon us 
the necessity of a new kind of warmth ; — a warmth not so fine 
as sunshine, but as manners go, more sociable. The English 
get together over their fires as the Italians do in their summer 
shade. We do not enjoy our sunshine as we ought; our climate 
seems to render us almost unaware that the weather is fine, 
when it really becomes so ; but for the same reason we make 
as much of our winter as the anti-social habits that have grown 
upon us from other causes will allow. And for a similar rea- 
son, the southern European is unprepared for a cold day. The 
houses in many parts of Italy are summer houses, unprepared 
for winter ; so that when a fit of cold weather comes, the dis- 
mayed inhabitant, walking and shivering about with a little bra- 
zier in his hands, presents an awkward image of insufficiency 
and perplexity. A few of our fogs, shutting up the sight of 
every thing out of doors and making the trees and the eaves 
of the houses drip like rain, would admonish him to get 
warm in good earnest. If ''the web of our life" is always to 
be "of a mingled yarn," a good warm hearth-rug is not the 
worst part of the manufacture. 

Here we are then again, with our fire before us and our 
books on each side. What shall we do .? Shall we take out a 
Life of somebody, or a Theocritus, or Petrarch, or Ariosto, or 
Montaigne, or Marcus Aurelius, or Moliere, or Shakespeare 
who includes them all ? Or shall we read an engraving from 
Poussin or Raphael } Or shall we sit with tilted chairs, planting 

279 ^ 



28o THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

our wrists upon our knees and toasting the up-turned palms 
of our hands, while we discourse of manners and man's heart 
and hopes, with at least a sincerity, a good intention, and good- 
nature that shall warrant what we say with the sincere, the 
good-intentioned, and the good-natured ? 

Ah — take care. You see what that old-looking saucer is, 
with a handle to it ? It is a venerable piece of earthenware, 
which may have been worth to an Athenian, about two-pence ; 
but to an author, is worth a great deal more than ever he could 

— deny for it. And yet he would deny it too. It will fetch his 
imagination more than ever it fetched potter or penny-maker. 
Its little shallow circle overflows with the milk and honey of a 
thousand pleasant associations. This is one of the uses of hav- 
ing mantle-pieces. You may often see on no very rich mantle- 
piece a representative body of all the elements physical and 
intellectual — a shell for the sea, a stuffed bird or some feathers 
for the air, a curious piece of mineral for the earth, a glass of 
water with some flowers in it for the visible process of creation, 

— a cast from sculpture for the mind of man ; — and under- 
^ neath all, is the bright and ever-springing fire, running up 

through them heavenwards, like hope through materiality. We 
like to have any little curiosity of the mantle-piece kind within 
our reach and inspection. For the same reason, we like a small 
study, where we are almost in contact with our books. We like 
to feel them about us — to be in the arms of our mistress Phi- 
losophy, rather than see her from a distance. To have a huge 
apartment for a study is like lying in the great bed at Ware, or 
being snug on a milestone upon Hounslow Heath. It is space 
and physical activity, not repose and concentration. It is fit 
only for grandeur and ostentation, — for those who have secre- 
taries, and are to be approached like gods in a temple. The 
Archbishop of Toledo, no doubt, wrote his homilies in a room 
ninety feet long. The Marquis Marialva must have been ap- 
proached through whole ranks of glittering authors, standing 
at due distance. But Ariosto, whose mind could fly out of its 
nest over all nature, wrote over the house he built, '' parvUf sed 





JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 281 

apta miW — small, but suited to me. However, it is to be 
observed that he could not afford a large. He was a Duodena- 
rian, in that respect, like ourselves. We do not know how our 
ideas of a study might expand with our walls. Montaigne, who 
was Montaigne '' of that ilk " and lord of a great chateau, had 
a study '' of sixteen paces in diameter, with three noble and free 
prospects." He congratulates himself, at the same time, on its 
circular figure, evidently from a feeling allied to the one in favour 
of smallness. '' The figure of my study," says he, " is round, 
and has no more flat (bare) wall than what is taken up by my 
table and my chairs ; so that the remaining parts of the circle 
present me with a view of all my books at once, set upon 
five degrees of shelves round about me." (Cotton's Montaigne, 
B. 3, ch. 3.) 

A great prospect we hold to be a very disputable advantage, 
upon the same reasoning as before ; but we like to have some 
green boughs about our windows, and to fancy ourselves as 
much as possible in the country, when we are not there. Milton 
expressed a wish with regard to his study extremely suitable to 
our present purpose. He would have the lamp in it seen ; thus 
letting others into a share of his enjoyments by the imagination 
of them. 

And let my lamp at midnight hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear 
With thrice-great Hermes ; or unsphere 
The Spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What world or what vast regiofis hold 
The immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook. 

There is a fine passionate burst of enthusiasm on the subject of 
a study in Fletcher's play of the Elder Brother, Act i, Scene 2 : 

Sordid and dunghill minds, composed of earth, 
In that gross elements fix all their happiness : 
But purer spirits, purged and refined. 
Shake off that clog of human frailty. Give me 
Leave to enjoy myself. That place that does 



282 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Contain my books, the best companions, is 

To me a glorious court, where hourly I 

Converse with the old sages and philosophers ; 

And sometimes for variety I confer 

With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels ; 

Calling their victories, if unjustly got, 

Unto a strict account ; and in my fancy. 

Deface their ill-placed statues. Can I then 

Part with such constant pleasures, to embrace 

Uncertain vanities? No, be it your care 

To augment a heap of wealth : it shall be mine 

To increase in knowledge. Lights there for my study. 



t^ 



c 



GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS 



>tf^' Indicato7\ January 19, 1820 

An Italian author — Giulio Cordara, a Jesuit — has written 
a poem upon insects, which he begins by insisting that those 
troublesome and abominable little animals were created for 
our annoyance, and that they were certainly not inhabitants of 
Paradise. We of the North may dispute this piece of theol- 
ogy ; but on the other hand, it is as clear as the snow on the 
house-tops that Adam was not under the necessity of shaving ; 
and that when Eve walked out of her delicious bower, she did 
not step upon ice three inches thick. 

Some people say it is a very easy thing to get up of a cold 
morning. You have only, they tell you, to take the resolution ; 
and the thing is done. This may be very true ; just as a boy 
at school has only to take a flogging, and the thing is over. 
But we have not at all made up our minds upon it ; and we 
find it a very pleasant exercise to discuss the matter, candidly, 
before we get up. This at least is not idling, though it may 
be lying. It affords an excellent answer to those who ask how 
lying in bed can be indulged in by a reasoning being, — a 
rational creature. How } Why with the argument calmly at 
work in one's head, and the clothes over one's shoulder. Oh 
— it is a fine way of spending a sensible, impartial half -hour. 



JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 283 

If these people would be more charitable, they would get on 
with their argument better. But they are apt to reason so ill, 
and to assert so dogmatically, that one could wish to have them 
stand round one's bed of a bitter morning, and lie before their 
faces. They ought to hear both sides of the bed, the inside and 
out. If they cannot entertain themselves with their own thoughts 
for half an hour or so, it is not the fault of those who can. 

Candid enquiries into one's decumbency, besides the greater 
or less privileges to be allowed a man in proportion to his 
ability of keeping early hours, the work given his faculties, &c., 
will at least concede their due merits to such representations 
as the following. In the first place, says the injured but calm 
appealer, I have been warm all night, and find my system in 
a state perfectly suitable to a warm-blooded animal. To get 
out of this state into the cold, besides the inharmonious and 
uncritical abruptness of the transition, is so unnatural to such 
a creature that the poets, refining upon the tortures of the 
damned, make one of their greatest agonies consist in being 
suddenly transported from heat to cold, — from fire to ice. 
They are ''haled" out of their "beds," says Milton, by 
"harpy-footed furies," — fellows who come to 'call them. — 
On my first movement towards the anticipation of getting up, 
I find that such parts of the sheets and bolster as are exposed 
to the air of the room are stone cold. On opening my eyes, 
the first thing that meets them is my own breath rolling forth, 
as if in the open air, like smoke out of a chimney. Think of 
this symptom. Then I turn my eyes sideways and see the 
window all frozen over. Think of that. Then the servant 
comes in. " It is very cold this morning, is it rvotl " — " Very 
cold, Sir." — " Very cold indeed, is n't it 1 " — " Very cold 
indeed. Sir." — "More than usually so, isn't it, even for this 
weather } " (Here the servant's wit and good nature are put 
to a considerable test, and the enquirer lies on thorns for the 

answer.) "Why, Sir I think it is!' (Good creature ! There 

is not a better or more truth-telling servant going.) " I must 
rise, however — get me some warm water." — Here comes a 



284 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

fine interval between the departure of the servant and the 
arrival of the hot water ; during which, of course, it is of " no 
use " to get up. The hot water comes. ''Is it quite hot ? " — 
''Yes, Sir." — " Perhaps too hot for shaving: I must wait a 
little.?" — " No, Sir; it will just do." (There is an over-nice 
propriety sometimes, an officious zeal of virtue, a little trouble- 
some.) "Oh — the shirt — you must air my clean shirt; — 
linen gets very damp this weather." — "Yes, Sir." Here 
another delicious five minutes. A knock at the door. " Oh, 
the shirt — very well. My stockings — I think the stockings 
had better be aired too." — " Very weU, Sir." — Here another 
interval. At length everything is ready, except myself. I now, 
continues our incumbent (a happy word, by the by, for a coun- 
try vicar) — I now cannot help thinking a good deal — who 
can ? — upon the unnecessary and villainous custom of shaving : 
it is a thing so unmanly (here I nestle closer) — so effeminate 
(here I recoil from an unlucky step into the colder part of the 
bed). — No wonder that the Queen of France took part with 
the rebels against that degenerate King, her husband, who first 
affronted her smooth visage with a face like her own. The 
Emperor Julian never showed the luxuriency; of his genius to 
better advantage than in reviving the flowing beard. Look at 
Cardinal Bembo's picture — at Michael Angelo's — at Titian's 
— at Shakespeare's — at Fletcher's — at Spenser's — at Chau- 
cer's — at Alfred's — at Plato's — I could name a great man 
for every tick of my watch. — Look at the Turks, a grave and 
otiose people. — Think of Haroun Al Raschid and Bed-ridden 
Hassan. — Think of Wortley Montague, the worthy son of his 
mother, above the prejudice of his time. — Look at the Persian 
gentlemen, whom one is ashamed of meeting about the sub- 
urbs, their dress and appearance are so much finer than our 
own. — Lastly, think of the razor itself — how totally opposed 
to every sensation of bed — how cold, how edgy, how hard ! 
how utterly different from anything like the warm and circling 

amplitude, which 

Sweetly recommends itself 

Unto our gentle senses. 



JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 285 

Add to this, benumbed fingers, which may help you to cut 
yourself, a quivering body, a frozen towel, and an ewer full of 
ice, and he that says there is nothing to oppose in all this, only 
shows that he has no merit in opposing it. 

Thomson, the poet, who exclaims in his Seasons — 

Falsely luxurious ! Will not man awake ? 

used to lie in bed till noon, because he said he had no motive 
in getting up. He could imagine the good of rising ; but then 
he could also imagine the good of lying still ; and his excla- 
mation, it must be allowed, was made upon summer-time, not 
winter. We must proportion the argument to the individual 
character. A money-getter may be drawn out of his bed by 
three and fourpence ; but this will not suffice for a student. 
A proud man may say "What shall I think of myself, if I 
don't get up .? " but the more humble one will be content to 
waive this prodigious notion of himself, out of respect to his 
kindly bed. The mechanical man shall get up without any ado 
at all ; and so shall the barometer. An ingenious Her in bed 
will find hard matter of discussion even on the score of health 
and longevity. He will ask us for our proofs and precedents 
of the ill effects of lying later in cold weather ; and sophisticate 
much on the advantages of an even temperature of body ; of 
the natural propensity (pretty universal) to have one's way ; 
and of the animals that roll themselves up, and sleep all the 
winter. As to longevity, he will ask whether the longest is of 
necessity the best ; and whether Holborn is the handsomest 
street in London. 

THE OLD GENTLEMAN 

Iiidicato7\ February 2, 1820 

Our Old Gentleman, in order to be exclusively himself, must 
be either a widower or a bachelor. Suppose the former. We 
do not mention his precise age, which would be invidious ; — 
nor whether he wears his own hair or a wig ; which would be 



286 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

wanting in universality. If a wig, it is a compromise be- 
tween the more modern scratch and the departed glory of the 
toupee. If his own hair, it is white, in spite of his favourite 
grandson, who used to get on the chair behind him, and pull 
the silver hairs out, ten years ago. If he is bald at top, the 
hairdresser, hovering and breathing about him like a second 
youth, takes care to give the bald place as much powder as the 
covered ; in order that he may convey to the sensorium within 
a pleasing indistinctness of idea respecting the exact limits 
of skin and hair. He is very clean and neat ; and in warm 
weather, is proud of opening his waistcoat half way down, and 
letting so much of his frill be seen, in order to show his hardi- 
ness as well as taste. His watch and shirt-buttons are of the 
best ; and he does not care if he has two rings on a finger. 
If his watch ever failed him at the club or coffee-house, he 
would take a walk every day to the nearest clock of good 
character, purely to keep it right. He has a cane at home, 
but seldom uses it, on finding it out of fashion with his elderly 
juniors. He has a small cocked hat for gala days, which he 
lifts higher from his head than the round one, when bowed to. 
In his pockets are two handkerchiefs (one for the neck at 
nighttime), his spectacles, and his pocket-book. The pocket- 
book, among other things, contains a receipt for a cough, and 
some verses cut out of an odd sheet of an old magazine, on 
the lovely Duchess of A., beginning — 

When beauteous Mira walks the plain. 

He intends this for a common-place book which he keeps, 
consisting of passages in verse and prose cut out of newspapers 
and magazines, and pasted in columns ; some of them rather 
gay. His principal other books are Shakespeare's Plays and 
Milton's Paradise Lost \ the Spectator, the History of Eng- 
lajid; the works of Lady M. W. Montague, Pope, and Church- 
ill ; Middleton's Geogj-aphy, The Gentleman s Magazine ; Sir 
John Sinclair on Longevity ; several plays with portraits in 
character ; Accoimt of Elisabeth Canning, Memoirs of George 



JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 287 

A7t7i Bellamy, Poetical Amtisements at Bath-Easton, Blair's 
Works, Elegant Extracts ; Junius as originally published ; a 
few pamphlets on the American War and Lord George Gor- 
don, &c. and one on the French Revolution. In his sitting 
rooms are some engravings from Hogarth and Sir Joshua ; an 
engraved portrait of the Marquis of Granby ; ditto of M. le 
Comte de Grasse surrendering to Admiral Rodney ; a humor- 
ous piece after Penny ; and a portrait of himself, painted by 
Sir Joshua. His wife's portrait is in his chamber, looking upon 
his bed. She is a little girl, stepping forward with a smile and 
a pointed toe, as if going to dance. He lost her when she 
was sixty. 

The Old Gentleman is an early riser, because he intends to 
live at least twenty years longer. He continues to take tea for 
breakfast, in spite of what is said against its nervous effects ; 
having been satisfied on that point some years ago by Dr. John- 
son's criticism on Hanway, and a great liking for tea previ- 
ously. His china cups and saucers have been broken since 
his wife's death, all but one, which is religiously kept for his 
use. He passes his morning in walking or riding, looking in 
at auctions, looking after his India bonds or some such money 
securities, furthering some subscription set on foot by his ex- 
cellent friend Sir John, or cheapening a new old print for 
his portfolio. He also hears of the newspapers ; not caring to 
see them till after dinner at the coffee-house. He may also 
cheapen a fish or so ; the fishmonger soliciting his doubting 
eye as he passes, with a profound bow of recognition. He 
eats a pear before dinner. 

His dinner at the coffee-house is served up to him at the 
accustomed hour, in the old accustomed way, and by the ac- 
customed waiter. If William did not bring it, the fish would 
be sure to be stale, and the flesh new. He eats no tart ; or 
if he ventures on a little, takes cheese with it. You might as 
soon attempt to persuade him out of his senses, as that cheese 
is not good for digestion. He takes port ; and if he has drunk 
more than usual, and in a more private place, may be induced 



288 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

by some respectful inquiries respecting the old style of music, 

to sing a song composed by Mr. Oswald or Mr. Lampe, 

such as — 

Chloe, by that borrowed kiss, 

or 

Come, gentle god of soft repose ; 

or his wife's favourite ballad beginning — 

At Upton on the Hill 
There lived a happy pair. 

Of course, no such exploit can take place in the coffee-room ; 
but he will canvass the theory of that matter there with you, 
or discuss the weather, or the markets, or the theatres, or 
the merits of " my Lord North " or '' my Lord Rockingham " ; 
for he rarely says simply, lord ; it is generally '' my lord," 
trippingly and genteelly off the tongue. If alone after dinner, 
his great delight is the newspaper ; which he prepares to read 
by wiping his spectacles, carefully adjusting them on his eyes, 
and drawing the candle close to him, so as to stand sideways 
betwixt his ocular aim and the small type. He then holds the 
paper at arm's length, and dropping his eyelids half down and 
his mouth half open, takes cognizance of the day's informa- 
tion. If he leaves off, it is only when the door is opened by 
a new-comer, or when he suspects somebody is over-anxious 
to get the paper out of his hand. On these occasions, he 
gives an important hem ! or so ; and resumes. 

In the evening, our Old Gentleman is fond of going to 
the theatre, or of having a game of cards. If he enjoys the 
latter at his own house or lodgings, he likes to play with some 
friends whom he has known for many years ; but an elderly 
stranger may be introduced, if quiet and scientific ; and the 
privilege is extended to younger men of letters ; who, if ill 
players, are good losers. Not that he is a miser ; but to win 
money at cards is like proving his victory by getting the bag- 
gage ; and to win of a younger man is a substitute for his 
not being able to beat him at rackets. He breaks up early, 
whether at home or abroad. 



JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 289 

At the theatre, he Hkes a front row in the pit. He comes 
early, if he can do so without getting into a squeeze, and sits 
patiently waiting for the drawing up of the curtain, with his 
hands placidly lying one over the other on the top of his stick. 
He generously admires some of the best performers, but thinks 
them far inferior to Garrick, Woodward, and Clive. During 
splendid scenes, he is anxious that the little boy should see. 

He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall again, but 
likes it still less than he did years back, and cannot bear it in 
comparison with Ranelagh. He thinks everything looks poor, 
flaring, and jaded. ''Ah!" says he, with a sort of trium- 
phant sigh, '' Ranelagh was a noble place ! Such taste, such 
elegance, such beauty ! There was the Duchess of A., the 
finest woman in England, Sir ; and Mrs. L., a mighty fine 
creature ; and Lady Susan what 's her name, that had that 
unfortunate affair with Sir Charles. Sir, they came swimming 
by you like the swans." 

The Old Gentleman is very particular in having his slip- 
pers ready for him at the fire, when he comes home. He is 
also extremely choice in his snuff, and delights to get a fresh 
boxful in Tavistock Street, in his way to the theatre. His 
box is a curiosity from India. He calls favourite young ladies 
by their Christian names, however slightly acquainted with 
them ; and has a privilege also of saluting all brides, mothers, 
and indeed every species of lady on the least holiday occasion. 
If the husband, for instance, has met with a piece of luck, he 
instantly moves forward, and gravely kisses the wife on the 
cheek. The wife then says, '' My niece. Sir, from the coun- 
try " ; and he kisses the niece. The niece, seeing her cousin 
biting her lips at the joke, says, ''My cousin Harriet, Sir"; 
and he kisses the cousin. He never recollects such weather, 
except during the Great Frost, or when he rode down with 
Jack Skrimshire to Newmarket. He grows young again in 
his little grandchildren, especially the one which he thinks 
most like himself ; which is the handsomest. Yet he likes 
best perhaps the one most resembling his wife ; and will sit 

-7 




290 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

with him on his lap, holding his hand in silence, for a quarter 
of an hour together. He plays most tricks with the former, 
and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general who 
was the father of Zebedee's children. If his grandsons are at 
school, he often goes to see them ; and makes them blush by 
telling the master or the upper-scholars, that they are fine 
boys, and of a precocious genius. He is much struck when 
an old acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived too fast ; and 
that poor Bob was a sad dog in his youth ; ''a very sad dog. 
Sir, mightily set upon a short life and a rrtsfry one." 

When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole eve- 
nings, and say little or nothing ; but informs you that there is 
Mrs. Jones (the housekeeper) — " She 'II talk." 



DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN 

Indicator^ April 5, 1820 

A Grecian philosopher being asked why he wept for the 
death of his son, since the sorrow was in vain, replied, '' I 
weep on that account." And his answer became his wisdom. 
It is only for sophists to pretend that we, whose eyes contain 
the fountains of tears, need never give way to them. It would 
be unwise not to do so on some occasions. Sorrow unlocks 
them in her balmy moods. The first bursts may be bitter and 
overwhelming ; but the soil on which they pour would be 
worse without them. They refresh the fever of the soul, — 
the dry misery, which parches the countenance into furrows, 
and renders us liable to our most terrible "flesh-quakes." 

There are sorrows, it is true, so great that to give them 
some of the ordinary vents is to run a hazard of being over- 
thrown. These we must rather strengthen ourselves to resist, 
or bow quietly and dryly down in order to let them pass over 
us, as the traveller does the wind of the desert. But where 
we feel that tears would relieve us, it is false philosophy to 
deny ourselves at least that first refreshment ; and it is always 



JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 291 

false consolation to tell people that because they cannot help 
a thing, they are not to mind it. The true way is to let them 
grapple with the unavoidable sorrow, and try to win it into 
gentleness by a reasonable yielding. There are griefs so gentle 
in their very nature that it would be worse than false heroism 
to refuse them a tear. Of this kind are the deaths of infants. 
Particular circumstances may render it more or less advisable 
to indulge in grief for the loss of a little child ; but in gen- 
eral, parents should be no more advised to repress their first 
tears on such an occasion, than to repress their smiles towards 
a child surviving, or to indulge in any other sympathy. It is 
an appeal to the same gentle tenderness ; and such appeals 
are never made in vain. The end of them is an acquittal 
from the harsher bonds of affliction, — from the tying down 
of the spirit to one melancholy idea. 

It is the nature of tears of this kind, however strongly they 
may gush forth, to run into quiet waters at last. We cannot 
easily, for the whole course of our lives, think with pain of 
any good and kind person whom we have lost. It is the 
divine nature of their qualities to conquer pain and death 
itself ; to turn the memory of them into pleasure ; to survive 
with a placid aspect in our imaginations. We are writing, at 
this moment, just opposite a spot which contains the grave of 
one inexpressibly dear to us. We see from our window the 
trees about it, and the church-spire. The green fields lie 
around. The cloudf are travelling overhead, alternately tak- 
ing away the sunshine and restoring it. The vernal winds, 
piping of the flowery summer-time, are nevertheless calling to 
mind the far distant and dangerous ocean, which the heart 
that lies in that grave had many reasons to think of. And 
yet the sight of this spot does not give us pain. So far from 
it, it is the existence of that grave which doubles every charm 
of the spot ; which links the pleasures of our childhood and 
manhood together ; which puts a hushing tenderness in the 
winds, and a patient joy upon the landscape ; which seems to 
unite heaven and earth, mortality and immortality, the grass 



292 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

of the tomb and the grass of the green field, and gives a 
more maternal aspect to the whole kindness of nature. It 
does not hinder gaiety itself. Happiness was what its tenant, 
through all her troubles, would have diffused. To diffuse hap- 
piness, and to enjoy it, is not only carrying on her wishes, 
but realizing her hopes ; and gaiety, freed from its only pollu- 
tions, malignity and want of sympathy, is but a child playing 
about the knees of its mother. 

The remembered innocence and endearments of a child 
stand us in stead of virtues that have died older. Children 
have not exercised the voluntary offices of friendship ; they 
have not chosen to be kind and good to us ; nor stood by us, 
from conscious will, in the hour of adversity. But they have 
shared their pleasures and pains with us as well as they could : 
the interchange of good offices between us has, of necessity, 
been less mingled with the troubles of the world ; the sorrow 
arising from their death is the only one which we can asso- 
ciate with their memories. These are happy thoughts that 
cannot die. Our loss may always render them pensive ; but 
they will not always be painful. It is a part of the benignity 
of Nature, that pain does not survive like pleasure, at any 
time, much less where the cause of it is an innocent one. The 
smile will remain reflected by memory, as the moon reflects 
the light upon us when the sun has gone into heaven. 

When writers like ourselves quarrel with earthly pain (we 
mean writers of the same intentions, without implying, of 
course, anything about abilities or otherwise) they are mis- 
understood if they are supposed to quarrel with pains of every 
sort. This would be idle and effeminate. They do not pre 
tend, indeed, that humanity might not wish, if it could, to be 
entirely free from pain ; for it endeavours at all times to turn 
pain into pleasure, or at least to set off the one with the other ; 
to make the former a zest, and the latter a refreshment. The 
most unaffected dignity of suffering does this ; and if wise, 
acknowledges it. The greatest benevolence towards others, 
the most unselfish relish of their pleasures, even at its own 



JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 293 

expense, does but look to increasing the general stock of 
happiness, though content, if it could, to have its identity 
swallowed up in that splendid contemplation. We are far 
from meaning that this is to be called selfishness. We are far, 
indeed, from thinking so, or of so confounding words. But 
neither is it to be called pain, when most unselfish, if disin- 
terestedness be truly understood. The pain that is in it softens 
into pleasure, as the darker hue of the rainbow melts into the 
brighter. Yet even if a harsher line is to be drawn between 
the pain and pleasure of the most unselfish mind (and ill 
health, for instance, may draw it), we should not quarrel with 
it, if it contributed to the general mass of comfort, and were 
of a nature which general kindliness could not avoid. Made 
as we are, there are certain pains, without which it would be 
difficult to conceive certain great and overbalancing pleasures. 
We may conceive it possible for beings to be made entirely 
happy ; but in our composition, something of pain seems to 
be a necessary ingredient, in order that the materials may turn 
to as fine account as possible ; though our clay, in the course 
of ages and experience, may be refined more and more. We 
may get rid of the worst earth, though not of earth itself. 

Now the liability to the loss of children — or rather what 
renders us sensible of. it, the occasional loss itself — seems 
to be one of these necessary bitters thrown into the cup of 
humanity. We do not mean that everyone must lose one of 
his children, in order to enjoy the rest; or that every in- 
dividual loss afflicts us in the same proportion. We allude to 
the deaths of infants in general. These might be as few as 
we could render them. But if none at all ever took place, we 
should regard every little child as a man or woman secured ; 
and it will easily be conceived, what a world of endearing 
cares and hopes this security would endanger. The very idea 
of infancy would lose its continuity with. us. Girls and boys 
would be future men and women, not present children. They 
would have attained their full growth in our imaginations, and 
might as well have been men and women at once. On the 



294 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

other hand, those who have lost an infant are never, as it 
were, without an infant child. They are the only persons 
who, in one sense, retain it always, and they furnish their 
neighbours with the same idea.^ The other children grow up 
to manhood and womanhood, and suffer all the changes of 
mortality. This one alone is rendered an immortal child. 
Death has arrested it with his kindly harshness, and blessed 
it into an eternal image of youth and innocence. 

Of such as these are the pleasantest shapes that visit our 
fancy and our hopes. They are the ever-smiling emblems of 
joy ; the prettiest pages that wait upon imagination. Lastly, 
" of these are the kingdom of heaven." Wherever there is 
a province of that benevolent and all-accessible empire, 
whether on earth or elsewhere, such are the gentle spirits 
that must inhabit it. To such simplicity, or the resemblance 
of it, must they come. Such must be the ready confidence of 
their hearts, and creativeness of their fancy. And so ignorant 
must they be of the ''knowledge of good and evil," losing 
their discernment of that self-created trouble, by enjoying the 
garden before them, and not being ashamed of what is kindly 
and innocent. 

SHAKING HANDS 

Indicator^ July 12, 1820 

Among the first things which we remember noticing in the 
manners of people were two errors in the custom of shaking 
hands. Some, we observed, grasped everybody's hand alike, 
— with an equal fervour of grip. You would have thought 
that Jenkins was the best friend they had in the world ; but 
on succeeding to the squeeze, though a slight acquaintance, 
you found it equally flattering to yourself ; and on the appear- 
ance of somebody else (whose name, it turned out, the operator 

1 "I sighed," says old Captain Bolton, "when I envied you the two bonnie 
children, but I sigh not now to call either the monk or the soldier mine 
own." — Monastery., vol. iii. p. 341. 



JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 295 

had forgotten) the crush was no less compUmentary : — the 
face was as earnest and beaming, the ''glad to see you" as 
syllabicaX and sincere, and the shake as close, as long, and 
"asTejoicing, . as if the semi-unknown was a friend come home 
from the Desarts. 

On the other hand, there would be a gentleman now and 
then as coy of his hand as if he were a prude, or had a whit- 
low. It was in vain that your pretensions did not go beyond 
the ''civil salute" of the ordinary shake; or that being intro- 
duced to him in a friendly manner and expected to shake 
hands with the rest of the company, you could not in decency 
omit his. His fingers, half coming out, and half retreating, 
seemed to think that you were going to do them a mischief ; 
and when you got hold of them, the whole shake was on 
your side : the other hand did but proudly or pensively ac- 
quiesce — there was no knowing which; you had to sustain 
it, as you might a lady's in handing her to a seat; and it 
was an equal perplexity to know how to shake or to let it go. 
The one seemed a violence done to the patient; the other 
an awkward responsibility brought upon yourself. You did not 
know, all the evening, whether you were not an object of dis- 
like to the person ; till on the party's breaking up, you saw 
him behave like an equally ill-used gentleman to all who 
practised the same unthinking civility. 

Both these errors, we think, might as well be avoided : but 
of the two we must say we prefer the former. If it does 
not look so much like particular sincerity, it looks more like 
general kindness ; and if those two virtues are to be separated 
(which- they assuredly need not be, if considered without 
spleen) the world can better afford to dispense with an un- 
' pleasant truth than a gratuitous humanity. Besides, it is more 
difficult to make sure of the one, than to practise the other ; 
and kindness itself is the best of all truths. As long as we 
are sure of that, we are sure of something, and of something 
pleasant. It is always the best end, if not in every instance 
the most logical means. 



296 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

This manual shyness is sometimes attributed to modesty, 
but never, we suspect, with justice, unless it be that sort of 
modesty whose fear of committing itself is grounded in pride. 
Want of address is a better reason, but this particular in- 
stance of it would be grounded in the same feeling. It always 
implies a habit either of pride or mistrust. We have met with 
two really kind men, who evinced this soreness of hand. 
Neither of them, perhaps, thought himself inferior to any- 
body about him, and both had good reason to think highly of 
themselves ; but both had been sanguine men contradicted in 
their early hopes. There was a plot to meet the hand of one 
of them with a fish-slice, in order to show him the disadvan- 
tage to which he put his friends by that flat mode of saluta- 
tion ; but the conspirator had not the courage to do it. 
Whether he heard of the intention, we know not ; but shortly 
afterwards he took very kindly to a shake. The other was 
the only man of a warm set of politicians who remained true 
to his first love of mankind. He was impatient at the change 
of his companions and at the folly and inattention of the rest ; 
but though his manner became cold, his consistency still re- 
mained warm ; and this gave him a right to be as strange 
as he pleased. 



WILLIAM HAZLITT (1778-1830) 

ON READING OLD BOOKS 

London Magazine^ February, 1821 

I hate to read new books. There are twenty or thirty 
volumes that I have read over and over again, and these are 
the only ones that I have any desire ever to read at all. It 
was a long time before I could bring myself to sit down to 
the Tales of My Landlord, but now that author's works have 
made a considerable addition to my scanty library. I am told 
that some of Lady Morgan's are good, and have been recom- 
mended to look into Anastasms ; but I have not yet ventured 
upon that task. A lady, the other day, could not refrain from 
expressing her surprise to a friend, who said he had been 
reading DelpJiine \ — she asked, — If it had not been pub- 
lished some time back.? Women judge of books as they do 
of fashions or complexions, which are admired only '' in their 
newest gloss." That is not my way. I am not one of those 
who trouble the circulating libraries much, or pester the book- 
sellers for mail-coach copies of standard periodical publica- 
tions. I cannot say that I am greatly addicted to black-letter, 
but I profess myself well versed in the marble bindings of 
Andrew Millar, in the middle of the last century ; nor does 
my taste revolt at Thurlow's State Papers, in Russia leather; 
or an ample impression of Sir William Temple's Essays, with 
a portrait after Sir Godfrey Kneller in front. I do not think 
altogether the worse of a book for having survived the author 
a generation or two. I have more confidence in the dead than 
the living. Contemporary writers may generally be divided 
into two classes — one's friends or one's foes. Of the first 
we are compelled to think too well, and of the last we are 

297 



298 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

disposed to think too ill, to receive much genuine pleasure 
from the perusal, or to judge fairly of the merits of either. 
One candidate for literary fame, who happens to be of our 
acquaintance, writes finely, and like a man of genius ; but 
unfortunately has a foolish face, which spoils a delicate pas- 
sage ; another inspires us with the highest respect for his 
personal talents and character, but does not quite come up to 
our expectations in print. All these contradictions and petty 
details interrupt the calm current of our reflections. If you 
want to know what any of the authors were who lived before 
our time, and are still objects of anxious inquiry, you have 
only to look into their works. But the dust and smoke and 
noise of modern literature have nothing in common with the 
pure, silent air of immortality. 

When I take up a work that I have read before (the 
oftener the better), I know what I have to expect. The satis- 
faction is not lessened by being anticipated. When the enter- 
tainment is altogether new, I sit down to it as I should to a 
strange dish — turn and pick out a bit here and there, and 
am in doubt what to think of the composition. There is a 
want of confidence and security to second appetite. New- 
fangled books are also like made-dishes in this respect, that 
they are generally little else than hashes and rifaccimentos of 
what has been served up entire and in a more natural state at 
other times. Besides, in thus turning to a well-known author, 
there is not only an assurance that my time will not be thrown 
away, or my palate nauseated with the most insipid or vilest 
trash, but I shake hands with, and look an old, tried, and 
valued friend in the face, compare notes, and chat the hours 
away. It is true, we form dear friendships with such ideal 
guests — dearer, alas! and more lasting, than those with our 
most intimate acquaintance. In reading a book which is an 
old favourite with me (say the first novel I ever read) I not 
only have the pleasure of imagination and of a critical relish 
of the work, but the pleasures of memory added to it. It 
recalls the same feelings and associations which I had in first 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 299 

reading it, and which I can never have again in any other 
way. Standard productions of this kind are hnks in the chain 
of our conscious being. They bind together the different 
scattered divisions of our personal identity. They are land- 
marks and guides in our journey through life. They are pegs 
and loops on which we can hang up, or from which we can 
take down, at pleasure, the wardrobe of a moral imagination, 
the relics of our best affections, the tokens and records of 
our happiest hours. They are "for thoughts and for remem- 
brance! " They are like Fortunatus's Wishing Cap — they 
give us the best riches — those of Fancy ; and transport us, 
not over half the globe, but (which is better) over half our 
lives, at a word's notice ! 

My father Shandy solaced himself with Bruscambille. Give 
me for this purpose a volume of Peregrine Pickle or Tom 
Jones. Open either of them anywhere — at the Memoirs of 
Lady Vane, or the adventures at the masquerade with Lady 
Bellaston, or the disputes between Thwackum and Square, or 
the escape of Molly Seagrim, or the incident of Sophia and 
her muff, or the edifying prolixity of her aunt's lecture — and 
there I find the same delightful, busy, bustling scene as ever, 
and feel myself the same as when I was first introduced into 
the midst of it. Nay, sometimes the sight of an odd volume 
of these good old English authors on a stall, or the name let- 
tered on the back among others on th^ shelves of a library, 
answers the purpose, revives the w^hole train of ideas, and sets 
"the puppets dallying." Twenty years are struck off the list, 
and I am a child again. A sage philosopher, who was not a very 
wise man, said that he should like very well to be young 
again, if he could take his experience along with him. This 
ingenious person did not seem to be aware, by the gravity of 
his remark, that the great advantage of being young is to be 
without this weight of experience, which he would fain place 
upon the shoulders of youth, and which never comes too late with 
years. Oh ! what a privilege to be able to let this hump, like 
Christian's burthen, drop from off one's back, and transport 



300 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

oneself, by the help of a little musty duodecimo, to the time 
when '' ignorance was bliss," and when we first got a peep 
at the raree-show of the world, through the glass of fiction — 
gazing at mankind, as we do at wild beasts in a menagerie, 
through the bars of their cages — or at curiosities in a mu- 
seum, that we must not touch ! For myself, not only are the 
old ideas of the contents of the work brought back to my mind 
in all their vividness, but the old associations of the faces and 
persons of those I then knew, as they were in their lifetime 
— the place where I sat to read the volume, the day when I 
got it, the feeling of the air, the fields, the sky — return, and 
all my early impressions with them. This is better to me — 
those places, those times, those persons, and those feelings 
that come across me as I retrace the story and devour the 
page, are to me better far than the wet sheets of the last new 
novel from the Ballantyne press, to say nothing of the Minerva 
press in Leadenhall Street. It is like visiting the scenes of 
early youth. I think of the time '' when I was in my father's 
house, and my path ran down with butter and honey" — when 
I was a little, thoughtless child, and had no other wish or care 
but to con my daily task, and be happy ! To7u Jones, I remem- 
ber, was the first work that broke the spell. It came down in 
numbers once a fortnight, in Cooke's pocket-edition, embel- 
lished with cuts. I had hitherto read only in school-books, 
and a tiresome ecclesiastical history (with the exception of Mrs. 
Radcliffe's Romance of the Forest) : but this had a different 
relish with it — "sweet in the mouth," though not ''bitter in 
the belly." It smacked of the world I lived in, and in which 
I was to live — and showed me groups, "gay creatures" not 
'' of the element," but of the earth ; not " living in the clouds," 
but travelling the same road that I did; — some that had 
passed on before me, and others that might soon overtake me. 
My heart had palpitated at the thoughts of a boarding-school 
ball, or gala-day at Midsummer or Christmas : but the world 
I had found out in Cooke's edition of the British Novelists 
was to me a dance through life, a perpetual gala-day. The 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 30 1 

sixpenny numbers of this work regularly contrived to leave off 
just in the middle of a sentence, and in the nick of a story, 
where Tom Jones discovers Square behind the blanket ; or 
where Parson Adams, in the inextricable confusion of events, 
very undesignedly gets to bed to Mrs. Slip-slop. Let me cau- 
tion the reader against this impression of Joseph Ajidrezvs ; 
for there is a picture of Fanny in it which he should not set 
his heart on, lest he should never meet with anything like it ; 
or if he should, it would, perhaps, be better for him that he 

had not. It was just like ! With what eagerness I 

used to look forward to the next number, and open the prints ! 
Ah ! never again shall I feel the enthusiastic delight with 
which I gazed at the figures, and anticipated the story and 
adventures of Major Bath and Commodore Trunnion, of Trim 
and my Uncle Toby, of Don Quixote and Sancho and Dapple, 
of Gil Bias and Dame Lorenza Sephora, of Laura and the 
fair Lucretia, whose lips open and shut like buds of roses. To 
what nameless ideas did they give rise — with what airy de- 
lights I filled up the outlines, as I hung in silence over the 
page ! Let me still recall them, that they may breathe fresh 
life into me, and that I may live that birthday of thought and 
romantic pleasure over again ! Talk of the ideal ! This is 
the only true ideal — the heavenly tints of Fancy reflected in 
the bubbles that float upon the spring-tide of human life. 

O Memory ! shield me from the world's poor strife, 
And give those scenes thine everlasting life ! 

The paradox with which I set out is, I hope, less startling 
than it was ; the reader will, by this time, have been let into 
my secret. Much about the same time, or I believe rather 
earlier, I took a particular satisfaction in reading Chubb's 
Tracts, and I often think I will get them again to wade 
through. There is a high gusto of polemical divinity in them ; 
and you fancy that you hear a club of shoemakers at Salisbury 
debating a disputable text from one of St. Paul's Epistles in 
a workmanlike style, with equal shrewdness and pertinacity. 



"302 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

I cannot say much for my metaphysical studies, into which I 
launched shortly after with great ardour, so as to make a toil 
of a pleasure. I was presently entangled in the briars and 
thorns of subtle distinctions — of ''fate, free-will, fore-knowledge 
absolute," though I cannot add that " in their wandering mazes 
I found no end " ; for I did arrive at some very satisfactory 
and potent conclusions ; nor will I go so far, however ungrate- 
ful the subject might seem, as to exclaim with Marlowe's 
Faustus — "Would I had never seen Wittenberg, never read 
book" — that is, never studied such authors as Hartley, Hume, 
Berkeley, etc. Locke's Essay on the Htmian Understanding 
is, however, a work from which I never derived either pleasure 
or profit ; and Hobbes, dry and 'powerful as he is, I did not 
read till long afterwards. I read a few poets, which did not 
much hit my taste — for I would have the reader understand, 
a I am deficient in the faculty of imagination ; but I fell early 
upon French romances and philosophy, and devoured them 
tooth-and-nail. Many a dainty repast have I made of the New 
Eloise ; — the description of the kiss ; the excursion on the 
water ; the letter of St. Preux, recalling the time of their first 
loves ; and the account of Julia's death ; these I read over and 
over again with unspeakable delight and wonder. Some years 
after, when I met with this work again, I found I had lost 
nearly my whole relish for it (except some few parts), and was, 
I remember, very much mortified with the change in my taste, 
which I sought to attribute to the smallness and gilt edges of 
the edition I had bought, and its being perfumed with rose- 
leaves. Nothing could exceed the gravity, the solemnity with 
which I carried home and read the Dedication to the Social 
Contract, with some other pieces of the same author, which I 
had picked up at a stall in a coarse leathern cover. Of the 
Confessiojis I have spoken elsewhere, and may repeat what I 
have said — " Sweet is the dew of their memory, and pleasant 
the balm of their recollection ! " Their beauties are not " scat- 
tered like stray-gifts o'er the earth," but sown thick on the 
page, rich and rare. I wish I had never read the Emilins, or 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 303 

read it with implicit faith. I had no occasion to pamper my 
natural aversion to affectation or pretence, by romantic and 
artificial means. I had better have formed myself on the 
model of Sir Fopling Flutter. There is a class of persons 
whose virtues and most shining qualities sink in, and are con- 
cealed by, an absorbent ground of modesty and reserve ; and 
such a one I do, without vanity, profess myself.^ Now these 
are the very persons who are likely to attach themselves to the 
character of Emilius, and of whom it is sure to be the bane. 
This dull, phlegmatic, retiring humour is not in a fair way to 
be corrected, but confirmed and rendered desperate, by being 
in that work held up as an object of imitation, as an example 
of simplicity and magnanimity — by coming upon us with all 
the recommendations of novelty, surprise, and superiority to 
the prejudices of the world — by being stuck upon a pedestal, 
made amiable, dazzling, a letirn-e de dupe ! The reliance on 
solid worth which it inculcates, the preference of sober truth 
to gaudy tinsel, hangs like a mill-stone round the neck of the 
imagination — "a load to sink a navy" — impedes our prog- 
ress, and blocks up every prospect in life. A man, to get on, 
to be successful, conspicuous, applauded, should not retire upon 
the centre of his conscious resources, but be always at the 
circumference of appearances. He must envelop himself in a 
halo of mystery- — he must ride in an equipage of opinion — - 
he must walk with a train of self-conceit following him — he 
must not strip himself to a buff -jerkin, to the doublet and hose 
of his real merits, but must surround himself with a cortege of 
prejudices, like the signs of the Zodiac — he must seem any- 
thing but what he is, and then he may pass for anything he 
pleases. The world love to be amused by hollow professions, 
to be deceived by flattering appearances, to live in a state of 

1 Nearly the same sentiment was wittily and happily expressed by a 
friend, who had some lottery puffs, which he had been employed to write, 
returned on his hands for their too great severity of thought and classical 
terseness of style, and who observed on that occasion that " Modest merit 
never can succeed ! " 



304 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

hallucination ; and can forgive everything but the plain, down- 
right, simple, honest truth — such as we see it chalked out in 
the character of Emilius. To return from this digression, which 
is a little out of place here. 

Books have in a great measure lost their power over me ; 

nor can I revive the same interest in them as formerly. I 

>/ perceive when a thing is good, rather than feel it. It is true, 

Marci'an Co/onna is a dainty book ; 

and the reading of Mr. Keats 's Eve of St. Agnes lately made 
me regret that I was not young again. The beautiful and 
tender images there conjured up, *' come like shadows — so 
depart." The ''tiger-moth's wings," which he has spread over 
his rich poetic blazonry, just flit across my fancy ; the gorgeous 
twilight window which he has painted over again in his verse, 
to me ''blushes" almost in vain "with blood of queens and 
kings." I know how I should have felt at one time in read- 
ing such passages ; and that is all. The sharp luscious flavour, 
the fine aroma is fled, and nothing but the stalk, the bran, the 
husk of literature is left. If any one were to ask me what I 
read now, I might answer with my Lord Hamlet in the play 
— ''Words, words, words." — "What is the matter?" — 
'' Nothing \'' — They have scarce a meaning. But it was 
not always so. There was a time when to my thinking, every 
word was a flower or a pearl, like those which dropped from 
the mouth of the little peasant-girl in the Fairy tale, or like 
those that fall from the great preacher in the Caledonian 
Chapel ! I drank of the stream of knowledge that tempted, 
'^ but did not mock my lips, as of the river of life, freely. How 
eagerly I slaked my thirst of German sentiment, "as the hart 
that panteth for the water-springs " ; how I bathed and rev- 
elled, and added my floods of tears to Goethe's Sorrows of 
Werter, and to Schiller's Robbers — 

Giving my stock of more to that which had too much ! 



J 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 305 

I read and assented with all my soul to Coleridge's fine 
Sonnet, beginning — 

Schiller ! that hour I would have wish'd to die, 
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent, 
From the dark dungeon of the tow'r time-rent, 
That fearful voice, a famish'd father's cry ! 

I believe I may date my insight into the mysteries of poetry 
from the commencement of my acquaintance with the Authors 
of the Lyrical Ballads ; at least, my discrimination of the 
higher sorts — not my predilection for such writers as Gold- 
smith or Pope : nor do I imagine they will say I got my 
liking for the Novelists, or the comic writers — for the char- 
acters of Valentine, Tattle, or Miss Prue — from them. If 
so, I must have got from them what they never had them- 
selves. In points where poetic diction and conception are 
concerned, I may be at a loss, and liable to be imposed upon: 
but in forming an estimate of passages relating to common 
life and manners, I cannot think I am a plagiarist from any 
man. I there " know my cue without a prompter." I may y 
say of such studies, hitits et in cute. I am just able to ad- 
mire those literal touches of observation and description 
which persons of loftier pretensions overlook and despise. 
I think I comprehend something of the characteristic part 
of Shakespeare ; and in him indeed all is characteristic, even 
the nonsense and poetry. I believe it was the celebrated 
Sir Humphry Davy who used to say that Shakespeare was 
rather a metaphysician than a poet. At any rate, it was not 
ill said. I wish that I had sooner known the dramatic writers 
contemporary with Shakespeare ; for in looking them over 
about a year ago, I almost revived my old passion for read- 
ing, and my old delight in books, though they were very 
nearly new to me. The Periodical Essayists I read long ago. 
The Spectator I liked extremely : but the Tatler took my 
fancy most. I read the others soon after, the Rambler, the 



306 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Adventure}', the World, the Connoisseur. I was not sorry to 
get to the end of them, and have no desire to go regularly 
through them again. I consider myself a thorough adept in 
Richardson. I like the longest of his novels best, and think 
no part of them tedious ; nor should I ask to have anything 
better to do than to read them from beginning to end, to 
take them up when I chose, and lay them down when I was 
tired, in some old family mansion in the country, till every 
word and syllable relating to the bright Clarissa, the divine 
Clementina, the beautiful Pamela, ''with every trick and line 
of their sweet favour," were once more '' graven in my heart's 
table." ^ I have a sneaking kindness for Mackenzie's Julia 
de Roubigne — for the deserted mansion, and straggling gilli- 
fiowers on the mouldering garden-wall ; and still more for his 
Man of Feeling ; not that it is better, nor so good ; but at 
the time I read it, I sometimes thought of the heroine, Miss 

Walton, and of Miss together, and ''that ligament, fine 

as it was, was never broken!" — One of the poets that I have 
always read wdth most pleasure, and can wander about in for 
ever with a sort of voluptuous indolence, is Spenser ; and I 
like Chaucer even better. The only waiter among the Italians 
I can pretend to any knowledge of is Boccaccio, and of him I 
cannot express half my admiration. His story of the Hawk I 
could read and think of from day to day, just as I would 
look at a picture of Titian's ! 

I remember, as long ago as the year 1798, going to a 
neighbouring town (Shrewsbury, where Farquhar has laid the 
plot of his Recridting Officer) and bringing home with me, 

1 During the peace of Amiens, a young English officer, of the name 
of Lovelace, was presented at Buonaparte's levee. Instead of the usual 
question, " Where have you served. Sir ? " the First Consul immediately ad- 
dressed him, " I perceive your name, Sir, is the same as that of the hero of 
Richardson's Romance ! " Here was a Consul. The young man's uncle, 
who was called Lovelace, told me this anecdote while we were stopping 
together at Calais. I had also been thinking that his was the same name 
as that of the hero of Richardson's Romance. This is one of my reasons 
for liking Buonaparte. 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 307 

''at one proud swoop," a copy of Milton's Paradise Lost, and 
another of Burke's Reflections on the Firnch Reiwlntion — 
both which I have still ; and I still recollect, w^hen I see the 
covers, the pleasure with which I dipped into them as I 
returned with my double prize. I was set up for one while. 
That time is past " with all its giddy raptures " : but I am 
still anxious to preserve its memory, '' embalmed with odours." 
— With respect to the first of these works, I would be per- 
mitted to remark here in passing that it is a sufficient answer 
to the German criticism which has since been started against 
the character of Satan (viz., that it is not one of disgusting 
deformity, or pure, defecated malice), to say that Milton has 
there drawn, not the abstract principle of evil, not a devil in- 
carnate, but a fallen angel. This is the Scriptural account, 
and the poet has followed it. We may safely retain such 
passages as that well-known one — . 

His form had not yet lost 

All her original brightness ; nor appear'd 
Less than archangel ruin'd ; and the excess 
Of glory obscur'd — 

for the theory, which is opposed to them, '' falls flat upon the 
grunsel edge, and shames its worshippers." Let us hear no 
more, then, of this monkish cant, and bigoted outcry for the 
restoration of the horns and tail of the devil ! — Again, as to 
the other work, Burke's Reflections, I took a particular pride 
and pleasure in it, and read it to myself and others for months 
afterwards. I had reason for my prejudice in favour of this 
author. To understand an adversary is some praise : to admire 
him is more. I thought I did both : I knew I did one. From 
the first time I ever cast my eyes on anything of Burke's 
(which was an extract from his '' Letter to a Noble Lord " in 
a three-times-a-week paper, the St. James' s Chronicle, in 1 796), 
I said to myself, " This is true eloquence : this is a man 
pouring out his mind on paper." All other style seemed to 
me pedantic and impertinent. Dr. Johnson's was walking on 
stilts; and even Junius's (who was at that time a favourite 



3o8 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

with me), with all his terseness, shrunk up into little anti- 
thetic points and well-trimmed sentences. But Burke's style 
was forked and playful as the lightning, crested like the ser- 
pent. He delivered plain things on a plain ground ; but when 
he rose, there was no end of his flights and circumgyrations 
— and in this very Letter, ''he, like an eagle in a dove-cot, 
fluttered his Volscians," (the Duke of Bedford and the Earl 
of Lauderdale) '' in Corioli." I did not care for his doctrines. 
I was then, and am still, proof against their contagion ; but I 
admired the author, and was considered as not a very staunch 
partisan of the opposite side, though I thought myself that an 
abstract proposition was one thing — a masterly transition, a 
brilliant metaphor, another. I conceived, too, that he might 
be wrong in his main argument, and yet deliver fifty truths in 
arriving at a false conclusion. I remember Coleridge assuring 
me, as a poetical and political set-off to my sceptical admira- 
tion, that Wordsworth had written an Essay on Marriage, 
which, for manly thought and nervous expression, he deemed 
incomparably superior. As I had not, at that time, seen any 
specimens of Mr. Wordsworth's prose style, I could not ex- 
press my doubts on the subject. If there are greater prose- 
writers than Burke, they either lie out of my course of study, 
or are beyond my sphere of comprehension. I am too old to 
be a convert to a new mythology of genius. The niches are 
occupied, the tables are full. If such is still my admiration of 
this man's misapplied powers, what must it have been at a 
time when I myself was in vain trying, year after year, to 
write a single essay, nay, a single page or sentence ; when I 
regarded the wonders of his pen with the longing eyes of one 
who was dumb and a changeling ; and when to be able to con- 
vey the slightest conception of my meaning to others in words, 
was the height of an almost hopeless ambition ! But I never 
measured others' excellences by my own defects : though a 
sense of my own incapacity, and of the steep, impassable 
ascent from me to them, made me regard them with greater 
awe and fondness. I have thus run through most of my early 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 309 

studies and favourite authors, some of whom I have since 
criticised more at large. Whether those observations will sur- 
vive me, I neither know nor do I much care : but to the 
works themselves, '' worthy of all acceptation," and to the 
feelings they have always excited in me since I could dis- 
tinguish a meaning in language, nothing shall ever prevent 
me from looking back with gratitude and triumph. To have 
lived in the cultivation of an intimacy with such works, and 
to have familiarly relished such names, is not to have lived 
quite in vain. 

There are other authors whom I have never read, and 
yet whom I have frequently had a great desire to read, from 
some circumstance relating to them. Among these is Lord 
Clarendon's History of the Graitd Rebellion, after which I 
have a hankering, from hearing it spoken of by good judges 
— from my interest in the events, and knowledge of the 
characters from other sources, and from having seen fine por- 
traits of most of them. I like to read a well-penned character, 
and Clarendon is said to have been a master in his way. 
I should like to read Froissart's C/u^onicles, Holinshed and 
Stowe, and Fuller's Worthies. I intend, whenever I can, to 
read Beaumont and Fletcher all through. There are fifty-two 
of their plays, and I have only read a dozen or fourteen of 
them. A Wife for a Moiith and Thierry and Theodoret are, 
I am told, delicious, and I can believe it. I should like to 
read the speeches in Thucydides, and Guicciardini's History 
of Florence, and Don Quixote in the original. I have often 
thought of reading the Loves of Persiles and. Sigismzmda, 
and the Galatea of the same author. But I somehow reserve 
them like ''another Yarrow." I should also like to read the 
last new novel (if I could be sure it was so) of the author 
of Waverley : — no one would be more glad than I to find 7 
it the best ! 



310 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

ON GOING A JOURNEY 

New Monthly Magazine^ \%ii 

One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a jour- 
ney ; but I hke to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a 
room ; but out of doors, nature is company enough for me. 
Y" I am then never less alone then when alone. 

The fields his study, nature was his book. 

I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same 
time. When I am in the country, I wish to vegetate like the 
country. I am not for criticising hedge-rows and black cattle. 
I go out of town in order to forget the town and all that is 
in it. There are those who for this purpose go to watering- 
places, and carry the metropolis with them. I like more elbow- 
room, and fewer incumbrances. I like solitude, when I give 
myself up to it, for the sake of solitude ; nor do I ask for 

a friend in my retreat, 



Whom I may whisper, soHtude is sweet. 

The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, 
do, just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free 
of all impediments and of all inconveniences ; to leave our- 
selves behind, much more to get rid of others. It is because 
I want a little breathing-space to muse on indifferent matters, 
where Contemplation 

May plume her feathers and let grow her wings, 

That in the various bustle of resort 

Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd, 

that I absent myself from the town for a while, without feeling 
at a loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend 
in a post-chaise or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things with, 
and vary the same stale topics over again, for once let me 
have a truce with impertinence. Give me the clear blue sky 
over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding 
road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner — and 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 31 1 

then to thinking ! It is hard if I cannot start some game 
on these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. 
From the point of yonder rolling cloud, I plunge into my 
past being, and revel there, as the sun-burnt Indian plunges 
headlong into the wave that wafts him to his native shore. 
Then long-forgotten things, Hke '' sunken wrack and sumless 
treasuries," burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, 
think, and be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, 
broken by attempts at wit or dull commonplaces, mine is that 
undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is perfect elo- 
quence. No one likes puns, alliterations, antitheses, argument, 
and analysis better than I do ; but I sometimes had rather be 
without them. '' Leave, oh, leave me to my repose ! " I have 
just now other business in hand, which would seem idle to you, 
but is with me '' very stuff o' the conscience." Is not this wild 
rose sweet without a comment ? Does not this daisy leap to 
my heart set in its coat of emerald .? Yet if I were to explain 
to you the circumstance that has so endeared it to me, you 
would only smile. Had I not better then keep it to myself, 
and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy 
point, and from thence onward to the far-distant horizon ? I 
should be but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer 
being alone. I have heard it said that you may, when the 
moody fit comes on, walk or ride on by yourself, and indulge 
your reveries. But this looks like a breach of manners, a neg- 
lect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you 
ought to rejoin your party. '' Out upon such half-faced fellow- 
ship," say I. I like to be either entirely to myself, or entirely 
at the disposal of others ; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit 
still, to be sociable or solitary. I was pleased with an observa- 
tion of Mr. Cobbett's, that " he thought it a bad French cus- 
tom to drink our wine with our meals, and that an Englishman 
ought to do only one thing at a time." So I cannot talk and 
think, or indulge in melancholy musing and lively conversation 
by fits and starts. '' Let me have a companion of my way," 
says Sterne, '' were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen 



312 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

as the sun declines." It is beautifully said ; but in my opinion, 
this continual comparing of notes interferes with the involun- 
tary impression of things upon the mind, and hurts the senti- 
ment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumb show, 
it is insipid : if you have to explain it, it is making a toil of 
a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature without being 
perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the benefit 
of others. I am for the synthetical method on a journey in 
preference to the analytical. I am content to lay in a stock 
of ideas then, and to examine and anatomise them afterwards. 
I want to see my vague notions float like the down of the 
thistle before the breeze, and not to have them entangled in 
the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, I like to have 
it all my own way ; and this is impossible unless you are alone, 
or in such company as I do not covet. I have no objection 
to argue a point with any one for twenty miles of measured 
road, but not for pleasure. If you remark the scent of a bean- 
field crossing the road, perhaps your fellow-traveller has no 
smell. If you point to a distant object, perhaps he is short- 
sighted, and has to take out his glass to look at it. There is 
a feeling in the air, a tone in the colour of a cloud which hits 
your fancy, but the effect of which you are unable to account 
for. There is then no sympathy, but an uneasy craving after 
it, and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way, and in 
the end probably produces ill-humour. Now I never quarrel 
with myself, and take all my own conclusions for granted till 
I find it necessary to defend them against objections. It is 
not merely that you may not be of accord on the objects and 
circumstances that present themselves before you — these may 
recall a number of objects, and lead to associations too delicate 
and refined to be possibly communicated to others. Yet these 
I love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly clutch them, when 
I can escape from the throng to do so. To give way to our 
feelings before company seems extravagance or affectation ; 
and, on the other hand, to have to unravel this mystery of our 
being at every turn, and to make others take an equal interest 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 313 

in it (otherwise the end is not answered) is a task to which 
few are competent. We must '' give it an understanding, but 
no tongue." My old friend Coleridge, however, could do both. 
He could go on in the most delightful explanatory way over 
hill and dale a summer's day, and convert a landscape into a 
didactic poem or a Pindaric ode. " He talked far above sing- 
ing." If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing 
words, I might perhaps wish to have some one with me to 
admire the swelling theme ; or I could be more content, were 
it possible for me still to hear his echoing voice in the woods 
of All-Foxden. They had "that fine madness in them which 
our first poets had"; and if they could have been caught by 
some rare instrument, would have breathed such strains as 

the following : — 

Here be woods as green 

As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet 

As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet 

Face of the curled streams, with flow'rs as many 

As the young spring gives, and as choice as any ; 

Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells ; 

Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines, caves and dells ; 

Choose where thou wilt, while I sit by and sing. 

Or gather rushes, to make many a ring 

For thy long fingers ; tell thee tales of love ; 

How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, 

First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes 

She took eternal fire that never dies ; 

How she convey'd him softly in a sleep. 

His temples bound with poppy, to the steep 

Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night, 

Gilding the mountain with her brother's light, 

To kiss her sweetest.^ 

Had I words and images at command like these, I would 
attempt to wake the thoughts that lie slumbering on golden 
. ridges in the evening clouds : but at the sight of nature my 
fancy, poor as it is, droops and closes up its leaves, like flowers 
at sunset. I can make nothing out on the spot : — I must have 
time to collect myself. — 

1 Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess, 



314 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

In general, a good thing spoils out-of-door prospects : it 
should be reserved for Table-talk. Lamb is for this reason, I 
take it, the worst company in the world out of doors ; because 
he is the best within. I grant there is one subject on which it 
is pleasant to' talk on a journey ; and that is, what one shall 
have for supper when we get to our inn at night. The open 
air improves this sort of conversation or friendly altercation, 
by setting a keener edge on appetite. Every mile of the road 
heightens the flavour of the viands we expect at the end of it. 
How fine it is to enter some old town, walled and turreted, 
just at the approach of nightfall, or to come to some straggling 
village, with the lights streaming through the surrounding 
gloom ; and then, after inquiring for the best entertainment 
that the place affords, to " take one's ease at one's inn ! " 
These eventful moments in our lives' history are too precious, 
too full of solid, heartfelt happiness to be frittered and drib- 
bled away in imperfect sympathy. I would have them all to 
myself, and drain them to the last drop : they will do to talk 
of or to write about afterwards. What a delicate speculation 
it is, after drinking whole goblets of tea, 

The cups that cheer, but not inebriate, 

and letting the fumes ascend into the brain, to sit considering 
what we shall have for supper — eggs and a rasher, a rabbit 
smothered in onions, or an excellent veal cutlet ! Sancho in 
such a situation once fixed upon cow-heel ; and his choice, 
though he could not help it, is not to be disparaged. Then 
in the intervals of pictured scenery and Shandean contempla- 
tion, to catch the preparation and the stir in the kitchen. 
Procul, O procul este profani! These hours are sacred to 
silence and to musing, to be treasured up in the memory, and 
to feed the source of smiling thoughts hereafter. I would not 
waste them in idle talk ; or if I must have the integrity of 
fancy broken in upon, I would rather it were by a stranger 
than a friend. A stranger takes his hue and character 
from the time and place ; he is a part of the furniture and 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 315 

costume of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or from the West 
Riding of Yorkshire, so much the better. I do not even try 
to sympathise with him, and he breaks no squares. I asso- 
ciate nothing with my travelhng companion but present objects 
and passing events. In his ignorance of me and my affairs, 
I in a manner forget myself. But a friend reminds one of 
other things, rips up old grievances, and destroys the abstrac- 
tion of the scene. He comes in ungraciously between us and 
our imaginary character. Something is dropped in the course 
of conversation that gives a hint of your profession and pur- 
suits ; or from having someone with you that knows the less 
sublime portions of your history, it seems that other people 
do. You are no longer a citizen of the world ; but your ''un- 
housed free condition is put into circumscription and confine." 
The mcog?tito of an inn is one of its striking privileges — 
'' lord of one's self, uncumbered with a name." Oh ! it is 
great to shake off the trammels of the world and of public 
opinion — to lose our importunate, tormenting, everlasting 
personal identity in the elements of nature, and become the 
creature of the moment, clear of all ties — to hold to the uni- 
verse only by a dish of sweetbreads, and to owe nothing but 
the score of the evening — and no longer seeking for applause 
and meeting with contempt, to be known by no other title 
than the Gentleman in the parlour ! One may take one's 
choice of all characters in this romantic state of uncertainty 
as to one's real pretensions, and become indefinitely respect- 
able and negatively right-worshipful. We baffle prejudice and 
disappoint conjecture ; and from being so to others, begin to 
be objects of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves. We are 
no more those hackneyed commonplaces that we appear in 
the world : an inn restores us to the level of nature, and quits 
scores with society ! I have certainly spent some enviable 
hours at inns — sometimes when I have been left entirely to 
myself, and have tried to solve some metaphysical problem, 
as once at Witham Common, where I found out the proof 
that likeness is not a case of the association of ideas — at 



3i6 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

other times, when there have been pictures in the room, as 
at St. Neot's (I think it was), where I first met with Gribehn's 
engravings of the Cartoons, into which I entered at once, and 
at a httle inn on the borders of Wales, where there happened 
to be hanging some of Westall's drawings, which I compared 
triumphantly (for a theory that I had, not for the admired 
artist) with the figure of a girl who had ferried me over the 
Severn, standing up in a boat between me and the twilight — 
at other times I might mention luxuriating in books, with a 
peculiar interest in this way, as I remember sitting up half 
the night to read Paul and Virginia, which I picked up at an 
inn at Bridgewater, after being drenched in the rain all day ; 
and at the same place I got through two volumes of Madame 
D'Arblay's Camilla. It was on the loth of April, 1798, that 
I sat down to a volume of the New Eloise, at the inn at 
Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken. The 
letter I chose was that in which St. Preux describes his feel- 
ings as he first caught a glimpse from the heights of the Jura 
of the Pays de Vaud, which I had brought with me as a bon 
bonche to crown the evening with. It was my birthday, and I 
had for the first time come from a place in the neighbourhood 
to visit this delightful spot. The road to Llangollen turns off 
between Chirk and Wrexham ; and on passing a certain point, 
you come all at once upon the valley, which opens like an 
amphitheatre, broad, barren hills rising in majestic state on 
either side, with '' green upland swells that echo to the bleat 
of flocks " below, and the river Dee babbling over its stony 
bed in the midst of them. The valley at this time '' glittered 
green with sunny showers," and a budding ash-tree dipped 
its tender branches in the chiding stream. How proud, how 
glad I was to walk along the high road that overlooks the deli- 
cious prospect, repeating the lines which I have just quoted 
from Mr. Coleridge's poems ! But besides the prospect which 
opened beneath my feet, another also opened to my inward 
sight, a heavenly vision, on which were written, in letters 
large as Hope could make them, these four words. Liberty, 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 317 

Genius, Love, Virtue ; which have since faded into the 
Hght of common day, or mock my idle gaze. 

The beautiful is vanished, and returns not. 

Still I would return some time or other to this enchanted 
spot ; but I would return to it alone. What other self could 
I find to share that influx of thoughts, of regret, and delight, 
the fragments of which I could hardly conjure up to myself, 
so much have they been broken and defaced ! I could stand 
on some tall rock, and overlook the precipice of years that 
separates me from what I then was. I was at that time going 
shortly to visit the poet whom I have above named. Where is 
he now ? Not only I myself have changed ; the world, which 
was then new to me, has become old and incorrigible. Yet 
will I turn to thee in thought, O sylvan Dee, in joy, in youth 
and gladness as thou then wert ; and thou shalt always be to 
me the river of Paradise, where I will drink of the waters of 
life freely ! 

There is hardly anything that shows the short-sightedness 
or capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. 
With change of place we change our ideas ; nay, our opinions 
and feelings. We can by an effort indeed transport ourselves 
to old and long-forgotten scenes, and then the picture of the 
mind revives again ; but we forget those that we have just 
left. It seems that we can think but of one place at a time. 
The canvas of the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we 
paint one set of objects upon it, they immediately efface every 
other. We cannot enlarge our conceptions, we only shift our 
point of view. The landscape bares its bosom to the enrap- 
tured eye, we take our fill of it, and seem as if we could form 
no other image of beauty or grandeur. We pass on, and think 
no more of it : the horizon that shuts it from our sight also 
blots it from our memory like a dream. In travelling through 
a wild, barren country, I can form no idea of a woody and 
cultivated one. It appears to me that all the world must be 
barren, like what I see of it. In the country we forget the 



31 8 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

town, and in town we despise the country. '' Beyond Hyde 
Park," says Sir Fopling Flutter, "all is a desert." All that 
part of the map that we do not see before us is blank. The 
world in our conceit of it is not much bigger than a nutshell. 
It is not one prospect expanded into another, county joined to 
county, kingdom to kingdom, lands to seas, making an image 
voluminous and vast ; — the mind can form no larger idea of 

• space than the eye can take in at a single glance. The rest 
is a name written in a map, a calculation of arithmetic. For 
instance, what is the true signification of that immense mass 
of territory and population, known by the name of China to 
us } An inch of pasteboard on a wooden globe, of no more 
account than a China orange ! Things near us are seen of the 
/ . size of life : things at a distance are diminished to the size of 
the understanding. We measure the universe by ourselves, 
and even comprehend the texture of our own being only piece- 
meal. In this way, however, we remember an infinity of things 
and places. The mind is like a mechanical instrument that 
plays a great variety of tunes, but it must play them in suc- 
cession. One idea recalls another, but it at the same time 
excludes all others. In trying to renew old recollections, we 
cannot as it were unfold the whole web of our existence ; we 
must pick out the single threads. So in coming to a place 
where we have formerly lived, and with which we have intimate 
associations, every one must have found that the feeling grows 
more vivid the nearer we approach the spot, from the mere 
anticipation of the actual impression : we remember circum- 

• . stances, feelings, persons, faces, names that we had not thought 
of for years ; but for the time all the rest of the world is 
forgotten ! — To return to the question I have quitted above. 
I have no objection to go to see ruins, aqueducts, pictures, 
in company with a friend or a party, but rather the contrary, 
for the former reason reversed. They are intelligible matters, 
and will bear talking about. The sentiment here is not tacit, 
but communicable- and overt. Salisbury Plain is barren of 
criticism, but Stonehenge will bear a discussion antiquarian. 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 319 

picturesque, and philosophical In setting out on a party of 
pleasure, the first consideration always is where we shall go 
to : in taking a solitary ramble, the question is what we shall 
meet with by the way. "The mind is its own place"; nor 
are we anxious to arrive at the end of our journey. I can 
myself do the honours indifferently well to works of art and 
curiosity. I once took a party to Oxford with no mean eclat 
— showed them that seat of the Muses at a distance, 

With glistering spires and pinnacles adorn'd — 

descanted on the learned air that breathes from the. grassy 
quadrangles and stone walls of halls and cottages — was at 
home in the Bodleian ; and at Blenheim quite superseded the 
powdered Cicerone that attended us, and that pointed in vain 
with his wand to commonplace beauties in matchless pictures. 
As another exception to the above reasoning, I should not 
feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country 
without a companion. I should want at intervals to hear the 
sound of my own language. There is an involuntary antipathy 
in the mind of an Englishman to foreign manners and notions 
that requires the assistance of social sympathy to carry it off. 
As the distance from home increases, this relief, which was 
at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an appetite. A person 
would almost feel stifled to find himself in the deserts of 
Arabia without friends and countrymen : there must be allowed 
to be something in the view of Athens or old Rome that 
claims the utterance of speech ; and I own that the Pyramids 
are too mighty for any single contemplation. In such situa- 
tions, so opposite to all one's ordinary train of ideas, one 
seems a species by one's-self, a limb torn off from society, un- 
less one can meet with instant fellowship and support. Yet I 
did not feel this want or craving very pressing once, when I 
first set my foot on the laughing shores of France. Calais 
was peopled with novelty and delight. The confused, busy 
murmur of the place was like oil and wine poured into my 
ears ; nor did the Mariners' Hymn, which was sung from the 



/ 



320 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

top of an old crazy vessel in the harbour, as the sun went 
down, send an alien sound into my soul. I only breathed 
the air of general humanity. I walked over '' the vine-covered 
hills and gay regions of France," erect and satisfied ; for the 
image of man was not cast down and chained to the foot of 
arbitrary thrones : I was at no loss for language, for that of 
all the great schools of painting was open to me. The whole 
is vanished like a shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, freedom, all 
are fled : nothing remains but the Bourbons and the French 
people ! — There is undoubtedly a sensation in travelling into 
foreign parts that is to be had nowhere else : but it is m^re 
pleasing at the time than lasting. It is too remote from our 
habitual associations to be a common topic of discourse ,or 
reference, and, like a dream or another state of existence, does 
not piece into our daily modes of life. It is an animated but 
a momentary hallucination. It demands an effort to exchange 
our actual for our ideal identity ; and to feel the pulse of our 
old transports revive very keenly, we must "jump" all our 
present comforts and connexions. Our romantic and itinerant 
character is not to be domesticated. Dr. Johnson remarked 
how little foreign travel added to the facilities of conversation 
in those who had been abroad. In fact, the time we have 
spent there is both delightful, and, in one sense, instructive ; 
but it appears to be cut out of our substantial, downright 
existence, and never to join kindly on to it. We are not the 
same, but another, and perhaps more enviable individual, all 
the time we are out of our own country. We are lost to our- 
selves, as well as our friends. So the poet somewhat quaintly 

sings, 

Out of my country and myself I go. 

Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, do well to absent 
themselves for a while from the ties and objects that recall 
them : but we can be said only to fulfil our destiny in the place 
that gave us birth. I should on this account like well enough 
to spend the whole of my life in travelling abroad, if I could 
anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home ! 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 321 

ON THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH 

Mo7ithly Magazi7te, March, 1827 

" Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible sun within us." — 

Sir Thomas Brow^n 

No young man believes he shall ever die. It was a saying 
of my brother's, and a fine one. There is a feeling of Eternity 
in youth, which makes us amends for everything. To be 
young is to be as one of the Immortal Gods. One half of 
time indeed is flown — the other half remains in store for us 
with all its countless treasures ; for there is no line drawn, 
and we see no limit to our hopes and wishes. We make the 
coming age our own. 

The vast, the unbounded prospect lies before us. 

Death, old age, are words without a meaning, that pass by us 
like the idle air which we regard not. Others may have under- 
gone, or may still be liable to them — we "bear a charmed 
life," which laughs to scorn all such sickly fancies. As in 
setting out on a delightful journey, we strain our eager gaze 

forward — 

Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail, — 

and see no end to the landscape, new objects presenting them- 
selves as we advance ; so, in the commencement of life, we 
set no bounds to our inclinations, nor to the unrestricted 
opportunities of gratifying them. We have as yet found no 
obstacle, no disposition to flag ; and it seems that we can go 
on so for ever. We look round in a new world, full of life, 
and motion, and ceaseless progress ; and feel in ourselves all 
the vigour and spirit to keep pace with it, and do not foresee 
from any present symptoms how we shall be left behind in the 
natural course of things, decline into old age, and drop into 
the grave. It is the simplicity, and as it were abstractedness 
of our feelings in youth, that (so to speak) identifies us with 
nature, and (our experience being slight and our passions 



322 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

strong) deludes us into a belief of being immortal like it. Our 
short-lived connection with existence, we fondly flatter our- 
selves, is an indissoluble and lasting union — a honey-moon 
that knows neither coldness, jar, nor separation. As infants 
smile and sleep, we are rocked in the cradle of our wayward 
fancies, and lulled into security by the roar of the universe 
around us — we quaff the cup of life with eager haste without 
draining it, instead of which it only overflows the more — 
objects press around us, filling the mind with their magnitude 
and with the throng of desires that wait upon them, so that 
we have no room for the thoughts of death. From that pleni- 
tude of our being, we cannot change all at once to dust and 
ashes, we cannot imagine " this sensible, warm motion, to 
become a kneaded clod" — we are too much dazzled by the 
brightness of the waking dream around us to look into the 
darkness of the tomb. We no more see our end than our be- 
ginning : the one is lost in oblivion and vacancy, as the other 
is hid from us by the crowd and hurry of approaching events. 
Or the grim shadow is seen lingering in the horizon, which 
we are doomed never to overtake, or whose last, faint, glim- 
mering outline touches upon Heaven and translates us to the 
skies ! Nor would the hold that life has taken of us permit us to 
detach our thoughts from present objects and pursuits, even if 
we would. What is there more opposed to health, than sick- 
ness ; to strength and beauty, than decay and dissolution ; to 
the active search of knowledge than mere oblivion ? Or is 
there none of the usual advantage to bar the approach of 
Death, and mock his idle threats ; Hope supplies their place, 
and draws a veil over the abrupt termination of all our cher- 
ished schemes. While the spirit of youth remains unimpaired, 
ere the '' wine of life is drank up " we are like people intoxi- 
cated or in a fever, who are hurried away by the violence of 
their own sensations : it is only as present objects begin to pall 
upon the sense, as we have been disappointed in our favourite 
pursuits, cut off from our closest ties, that passion loosens its 
hold upon the breast, that we by degrees become weaned from 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 323 

the world, and allow ourselves to contemplate, ''as in a glass, 
darkly," the possibility of parting with it for good. The ex- 
ample of others, the voice of experience, has no effect upon 
us whatever. Casualties we must avoid : the slow and deliber- 
ate advances of age we can play at hide-and-seek with. We 
think ourselves too lusty and too nimble for that blear-eyed 
decrepid old gentleman to catch us. Like the foolish fat scul- 
lion, in Sterne, when she hears that Master Bobby is dead, 
our only reflection is — ''So am not I ! " The idea of death, 
instead of staggering our confidence, rather seems to strengthen 
and enhance our possession and our enjoyment of life. Others 
may fall around us like leaves, or be mowed down like flowers 
by the scythe of Time : these are but tropes and figures to the 
unreflecting ears and overweening presumption of youth. It is 
not till we see the flowers of Love, Hope, and Joy, withering 
around us, and our own pleasures cut up by the roots, that we 
bring the moral home to ourselves, that we abate something 
of the wanton extravagance of our pretensions, or that the 
emptiness and dreariness of the prospect before us reconciles 
us to the stillness of the grave ! 

Life ! thou strange thing, that hast a power to feel 
Thou art, and to perceive that others are.^ 

Well might the poet begin his indignant invective against 
an art, whose professed object is its destruction, with this ani- 
mated apostrophe to life. Life is indeed a strange gift, and 
its privileges are most miraculous. Nor is it singular that 
when the splendid boon is first granted us, our gratitude, our 
admiration, and our delight should prevent us from reflecting 
on our own nothingness, or from thinking it will ever be 
recalled. Our first and strongest impressions are taken from 
the mighty scene that is opened to us, and we very innocently 
transfer its durability as well as magnificence to ourselves. So 
newly found, we cannot make up our minds to parting with it 
yet and at least put off that consideration to an indefinite term. 

^ Fawcett's A}-t of IFar, a poem, 1794. 



324 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Like a clown at a fair, we are full of amazement and rapture, 
and have no thoughts of going home, or that it will soon be 
night. We know our existence only from external objects, 
and we measure it by them. We can never be satisfied with 
gazing ; and nature will still want us to look on and applaud. 
Otherwise, the sumptuous entertainment, '' the feast of reason 
and the flow of soul," to which they were invited seems little 
better than a mockery and a cruel insult. We do not go from 
a play till the scene is ended, and the lights are ready to be 
extinguished. But the fair face of things still shines on ; shall 
we be called away, before the curtain falls, or ere we have 
scarce had a glimpse of what is going on .? Like children, our 
step-mother Nature holds us up to see the raree-show of the 
universe ; and then, as if life were a burthen to support, lets 
us instantly down again. Yet in that short interval, what 
''brave sublunary things" does not the spectacle unfold; like 
a bubble, at one minute reflecting the universe, and the next, 
shook to air ! — To see the golden sun and the azure sky, the 
outstretched ocean, to walk upon the green earth, and to be 
lord of a thousand creatures, to look down giddy precipices or 
over distant flowery vales, to see the world spread out under 
one's finger in a map, to bring the stars near, to view the 
smallest insects in a microscope, to read history, and witness 
the revolutions of empires and the succession of generations, 
to hear of the glory of Sidon and Tyre, of Babylon and Susa, 
as of a faded pageant, and to say all these were, and are now 
nothing, to think that we exist in such a point of time, and 
in such a corner of space, to be at once spectators and a part 
of the moving scene, to watch the return of the seasons, of 
spring and autumn, to hear 

The stockdove plain amid the forest deep, 



That drowsy rustles to the sighing gale 

to traverse desert wildernesses, to listen to the midnight choir, 
to visit lighted halls, or plunge into the dungeon's gloom, or 
sit in crowded theatres and see life itself mocked, to feel heat 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 325 

and cold, pleasure and pain, right and wrong, truth and false- 
hood, to study the works of art and refine the sense of beauty 
to agony, to worship fame and to dream of immortality, to 
have read Shakspeare and belong to the same species as 
Sir Isaac Newton ; to be and to do all this, and then in a 
moment to be nothing, to have it all snatched from one like 
a juggler's ball or a phantasmagoria ; there is something revolt- 
ing and incredible to sense in the transition, and no wonder 
that, aided by youth and warm blood, and the flush of enthu- 
siasm, the mind contrives for a long time to reject it with 
disdain and loathing as a monstrous and improbable fiction, 
like a monkey on a house-top, that is loath, amidst its fine 
discoveries and specious antics, to be tumbled head-long into 
the street, and crushed to atoms, the sport and laughter of 
the multitude ! 

The change, from the commencement to the close of life, 
appears like a fable, after it has taken place ; how should we 
treat it otherwise than as a chimera before it has come to pass ? 
There are some things that happened so long ago, places or 
persons we have formerly seen, of which such dim traces re- 
main, we hardly know whether it was sleeping or waking they 
occurred ; they are like dreams within the dream of life, a mist, 
a film before the eye of memory, which, as we try to recall 
them more distinctly, elude our notice altogether. It is but 
natural that the lone interval that we thus look back upon, 
should have appeared long and endless in prospect. There are 
others so distinct and fresh, they seem but of yesterday — their 
very vividness might be deemed a pledge of their permanence. 
Then, however far back our impressions may go, we find others 
still older (for our years are multiplied in youth) ; descriptions 
of scenes that we had read, and people before our time, Priam 
and the Trojan war ; and even then, Nestor was old and dwelt 
delighted on his youth, and spoke of the race of heroes that 
were no more ; — what wonder that, seeing this long line of 
being pictured in our minds, and reviving as it were in us, we 
should give ourselves involuntary credit for an indeterminate 



326 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

period of existence ? In the Cathedral at Peterborough there 
is a monument to Mary, Queen of Scots, at which I used to 
gaze when a boy, while the events of the period, all that had 
happened since, passed in review before me. If all this mass 
of feeling and imagination could be crowded into a moment's 
compass, what might not the whole of life be supposed to con- 
tain ? We are heirs of the past ; we count upon the future as 
our natural reversion. Besides, there are some of our early 
impressions so exquisitely tempered, it appears that they must 
always last — nothing can add to or take away from their 
sweetness and purity — the first breath of spring, the hyacinth 
dipped in the dew, the mild lustre of the evening-star, the 
rainbow after a storm — w^hile we have the full enjoyment of 
these, we must be young ; and what can ever alter us in this 
respect .? Truth, friendship, love, books, are also proof against 
the canker of time ; and while we live but for them, we can 
never grow old. We take out a new lease of existence from 
the objects on which we set our affections, and become 
abstracted, impassive, immortal in them. We cannot conceive 
how certain sentiments should ever decay or grow cold in our 
breasts ; and, consequently, to maintain them in their first 
youthful glow and vigour, the flame of life must continue to 
burn as bright as ever, or rather, they are the fuel that feed 
the sacred lamp, that kindle "the purple light of love," and 
spread a golden cloud around our heads ! Again, we not only 
flourish and survive in our affections (in which we will not 
listen to the possibility of a change, any more than we fore- 
see the wrinkles on the brow of a mistress), but we have a 
farther guarantee against the thoughts of death in our favourite 
studies and pursuits, and in their continual advance. Art we 
know is long ; life, we feel, should be so too. We see no end 
of the difficulties we have to encounter : perfection is slow 
of attainment, and we must have time to accomplish it in. 
Rubens complained that when he had just learnt his art, he 
was snatched away from it : we trust we shall be more fortu- 
nate ! A wrinkle in an old head takes whole days to finish it 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 327 

properly: but to catch "the Raphael grace, the Guido air," 
no limit should be put to our endeavours. What a prospect 
for the future ! What a task we have entered upon ! and shall 
we be arrested in the middle of it? We do not reckon our 
time thus employed lost, or our pains thrown away, or our 
progress slow — we do not droop or grow tired, but "gain 
new vigour at our endless task"; — and shall Time grudge 
us the opportunity to finish what we have auspiciously begun, 
and have formed a sort of compact with nature to achieve ? 
The fame of the great names we look up to is also imperish- 
able ; and shall not we, who contemplate it with such intense 
yearnings, imbibe a portion of ethereal fire, the divince parti- 
cida aurcB, which nothing can extinguish? I remember to 
have looked at a print of Rembrandt for hours together, with- 
out being conscious of the flight of time, trying to resolve it 
into its component parts, to connect its strong and sharp grada- 
tions, to learn the secret of its reflected lights, and found 
neither satiety nor pause in the prosecution of my studies. 
The print over which I was poring would last long enough ; 
why should the idea in my mind, which was finer, more im- 
palpable, perish before it? At this, I redoubled the ardour of 
my pursuit, and by the very subtlety and refinement of my 
inquiries, seemed to bespeak for them an exemption from 
corruption and the rude grasp of Death. ^ 

Objects, on our first acquaintance with them, have that 
singleness and integrity of impression that it seems as if 
nothing could destroy or obliterate them, so firmly are they 
stamped and rivetted on the brain. We repose on them with 
a sort of voluptuous indolence, in full faith and boundless con- 
fidence. We are absorbed in the present moment, or return to 
the same point — idling away a great deal of time in youth, 
thinking we have enough and to spare. There is often a local 
feeling in the air, which is as fixed as if it were of marble; 

1 Is it not this that frequently keeps artists alive so long, viz. the constant 
occupation- of their minds with vivid images, with little of the wear-and-tear 
of the body ? 



328 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

we loiter in dim cloisters, losing ourselves in thought and in 
their glimmering arches ; a winding road before us seems as 
long as the journey of life, and as full of events. Time and 
experience dissipate this illusion ; and by reducing them to 
detail, circumscribe the limits of our expectations. It is only 
as the pageant of life passes by and the masques turn their 
backs upon us, that we see through the deception, or believe 
that the train will have an end. In many cases, the slow prog- 
ress and monotonous texture of our lives, before we mingle 
with the world and are embroiled in its affairs, has a tend- 
ency to aid the same feeling. We have a difficulty, when left 
to ourselves, and without the resource of books or some more 
lively pursuit, to " beguile the slow and creeping hours of 
time," and argue that if it moves on always at this tedious 
snail's-pace, it can never come to an end. We are willing to 
skip over certain portions of it that separate us from favourite 
objects, that irritate ourselves at the unnecessary delay. The 
young are prodigal of life from a superabundance of it ; the 
old are tenacious on the same score, because they have little 
left, and cannot enjoy even what remains of it. 

For my part, I set out in life with the F>ench Revolution, 
and that event had considerable influence on my early feelings, 
as on those of others. Youth was then doubly such. It was 
the dawn of a new era, a new impulse had been given to men's 
minds, and the sun of Liberty rose upon the sun of Life in 
the same day, and both were proud to run their race together. 
Little did I dream, while my first hopes and wishes went hand 
in hand with those of the human race, that long before my 
eyes should close, that dawn would be overcast, and set once 
more in the night of despotism — "total eclipse!" Happy 
that I did not. I felt for years, and during the best part of 
my existence, heart-zvhole in that cause, and' triumphed in the 
triumphs over the enemies of man ! At that time, while the 
fairest aspirations of the human mind seemed about to be real- 
ized, ere the image of man was defaced and his breast mangled 
in scorn, philosophy took a higher, poetry could afford a deeper 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 329 

range. At that time, to read the Robbers, was indeed dehcious, 
and to hear 

From the dungeon of the tower time-rent, 
That fearful voice, a famish'd father's cry, 

could be borne only amidst the fulness of hope, the crash of 
the fall of the strongholds of power, and the exulting sounds 
of the march of human freedom. What feelings the death- 
scene in Don Carlos sent into the soul ! In that headlong 
career of lofty enthusiasm, and the joyous opening of the 
prospects of the world and our own, the thought of death 
crossing it smote doubly cold upon the mind ; there was a 
stifling sense of oppression and confinement, an impatience of 
our present knowledge, a desire to grasp the whole of our 
existence in one strong embrace, to sound the mystery of life 
and death, and in order to put an end to the agony of doubt 
and dread, to burst through our prison-house, and confront 
the King of Terrors in his grisly palace ! . . . As I was 
writing out this passage, my miniature-picture when a child 
lay on the mantle-piece, and I took it out of the case to look 
at it. I could perceive few traces of myself in it ; but there 
was the same placid brow, the dimpled mouth, the same timid, 
inquisitive glance as ever. But its careless smile did not seem 
to reproach me with having become a recreant to the senti- 
ments that were then sown in my mind, or with having writ- 
ten a sentence that could call up a blush in this image of 
ingenuous youth ! •- 

"That time is past with all its giddy raptures." Since the 
future was barred to my progress, I have turned for consola- 
tion to the past, gathering up the fragments of my early recol- 
lections, and putting them into a form that might live. It is 
thus, that when we find our personal and substantial identity 
vanishing from us, we strive to gain a reflected and substituted 
one in our thoughts : we do not like to perish wholly, and 
wish to bequeath our names at least to posterity. As long as 
we can keep alive our cherished thoughts and nearest interests 



330 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

in the minds of others, we do not appear to have retired alto- 
gether from the stage, we still occupy a place in the estimation 
of mankind, exercise a powerful influence over them, and it is 
only our bodies that are trampled into dust or dispersed to air. 
Our darling speculations still find favour and encouragement, 
and we make as good a figure in the eyes of our descendants, 
nay, perhaps, a better than we did in our life-time. This is 
one point gained ; the demands of our self-love are so far sat- 
isfied. Besides, if by the proofs of intellectual superiority we 
survive ourselves in this world, by exemplary virtue or unblem- 
ished faith we are taught to ensure an interest in another and 
a higher state of being, and to anticipate at the same time the 
applauses of men and angels. 

Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries ; 
Even in our ashes Uve their wonted fires. 

As we advance in life, we acquire a keener sense of the value 
of time. Nothing else, indeed, seems of any consequence ; and 
we become misers in this respect. We try to arrest its few 
last tottering steps, and to make it linger on the brink of the 
grave. We can never leave off wondering how that which has 
ever been should cease to be, and would still live on, that we 
may wonder at our own shadow, and when '' all the life of life 
is flown," dwell on the retrospect of the past. This is accom- 
panied by a mechanical tenaciousness of whatever we possess, 
by a distrust and a sense of fallacious hollowness in all we 
see. Instead of the full, pulpy feeling of youth, everything is 
flat and insipid. The world is a painted witch, that puts us 
off with false shews and tempting appearances. The ease, the 
jocund gaiety, the unsuspecting security of youth are fled : nor 
can we, without flying in the face of common sense. 

From the last dregs of life, hope to receive 
What its first sprightly runnings could not give. 

If we can slip out of the world without notice or mischance, 
can tamper with bodily infirmity, and frame our minds to the 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 331 

becoming composure of still-life, before we sink into total in- 
sensibility, it is as much as we ought to expect. We do not in 
the regular course of nature die all at once : we have mouldered 
away gradually long before ; faculty after faculty, attachment 
after attachment, we are torn from ourselves piece-meal while 
living ; year after year takes something from us ; and death 
only consigns the last remnant of what we were to the grave. 
The revulsion is not so great, and a quiet etcthanasia is a 
winding-up of the plot, that is not out of reason or nature. 

That we should thus in a manner outlive ourselves, and 
dwindle imperceptibly into nothing, is not surprising, when 
even in our prime the strongest impressions leave so little 
traces of themselves behind, and the last object is driven out 
by the succeeding one. How little effect is produced on us at 
any time by the books we have read, the scenes we have wit- 
nessed, the sufferings we have gone through ! Think only of 
the variety of feelings we experience in reading an interesting 
romance, or being present at a fine play — what beauty, what 
sublimity, what soothing, what heart-rending emotions ! You 
would suppose these would last for ever, or at least subdue the 
mind to a correspondent tone and harmony — w^hile we turn 
over the page, while the scene is passing before us, it seems as 
if nothing could ever after shake our resolution, that "treason 
domestic, foreign levy, nothing could touch us farther! " The 
first splash of mud we get, on entering the street, the first 
pettifogging shop-keeper that cheats us out of twopence, and 
the whole vanishes clean out of our remembrance, and we be- 
come the idle prey of the most petty and annoying circum- 
stances. The mind soars by an effort to the grand and lofty : 
it is at home in the grovelling, the disagreeable, and the little. 
This happens in the height and heyday of our existence, when 
novelty gives a stronger impulse to the blood and takes a faster 
hold of the brain, (I have known the impression on coming 
out of a gallery of pictures then last half a day) — as we grow 
old, we become more feeble and querulous, every object '' re- 
verbs its own hollowness," and both worlds are not enough to 



332 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

satisfy the peevish importunity and extravagant presumption of 
our desires ! There are a few superior, happy beings, who are 
born with a temper exempt from every trifling annoyance. 
This spirit sits serene and smihng as in its native skies, and a 
divine harmony (whether heard or not) plays around them. This 
is to be at peace. Without this, it is in vain to fly into deserts, 
or to build a hermitage on the top of rocks, if regret and ill- 
humour follow us there : and with this, it is needless to make 
the experiment. The only true retirement is that of the heart ; 
the only true leisure is the repose of the passions. To such 
persons it makes little difference whether they are young or 
old ; and they die as they have lived, with graceful resignation. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 

(1811-1863) 

TUNBRIDGE TOYS 

Cornhill Magazine^ September, i860 

I wonder whether those Httle silver pencil-cases with a mov- 
able almanack at the butt-end are still favourite implements with 
boys, and whether pedlars still hawk them about the country ? 
Are there pedlars and hawkers still, or are rustics and children 
grown too sharp to deal with them ? Those pencil-cases, as 
far as my memory serves me, were not of much use. The 
screw, upon which the movable almanack turned, was constantly 
getting loose. The i of the table would work from its moor- 
ings, under Tuesday or Wednesday, as the case might be, and 
you would find, on examination, that Th. or W. was the 23I 
of the month (which was absurd on the face of the thing), and 
in a word your cherished pencil-case an utterly unreliable time- 
keeper. Nor was this a matter of wonder. Consider the posi- 
tion of a pencil-case in a boy's pocket. You had hardbake in 
it ; marbles, kept in your purse when the money was all gone ; 
your mother's purse, knitted so fondly and supplied with a 
little bit of gold, long since — prodigal little son ! — scattered 
amongst the swine — I mean amongst brandy-balls, open tarts, 
three-cornered puffs, and similar abominations. You had a top 
and string ; a knife ; a piece of cobbler's wax ; two or three 
bullets ; a '' Little Warbler " ; and I, for my part, remember, 
for a considerable period, a brass-barrelled pocket-pistol (which 
would fire beautifully, for with it I shot off a button from Butt 
Major's jacket) ; — with all these things, and ever so many 
more, clinking and rattling in your pockets, and your hands, 
of course, keeping them in perpetual movement, how could 



334 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

you expect your movable almanack not to be twisted out of 
its place now and again — your pencil-case to be bent — your 
liquorice water not to leak out of your bottle over the cobbler's 
wax, your bull's-eyes not to ram up the lock and barrel of your 
pistol, and so forth ? 

In the month of June, thirty-seven years ago, I bought one 
of those pencil-cases from a boy whom I shall call Hawker, 
and who was in my form. Is he dead ? Is he a millionaire ? 
Is he a bankrupt now ? He was an immense screw at school, 
and I believe to this day that the value of the thing for which 
I owed and eventually paid three-and-sixpence, was in reality 
not one-and-nine. 

I certainly enjoyed the case at first a good deal, and amused 
myself with twiddling round the movable calendar. But this 
pleasure wore off. The jewel, as I said, was not paid for, and 
Hawker, a large and violent boy, was exceedingly unpleasant 
as a creditor. His constant remark was, " When are you going 
to pay me that three-and-sixpence .'' What sneaks your rela- 
tions must be ! They come to see you. You go out to them 
on Saturdays and Sundays, and they never give you anything ! 
Don't tell me, you little humbug ! " and so forth. The truth 
is that my relations were respectable ; but my parents were 
making a tour in Scotland ; and my friends in London, whom 
I used to go and see, were most kind to me, certainly, but 
somehow never tipped me. That term, of May to August 
1823, passed in agonies, then, in consequence of my debt to 
Hawker. What was the pleasure of a calendar pencil-case in 
comparison with the doubt and torture of mind occasioned 
by the sense of the debt, and the constant reproach in that 
fellow's scowling eyes and gloomy coarse reminders } How 
was I to pay off such a debt out of sixpence a week .? ludi- 
crous ! Why did not some one come to see me, and tip me } 
Ah ! my dear sir, if you have any little friends at school, go 
and see them, and do the natural thing by them. You won't 
miss the sovereign. You don't know what a blessing it will be 
to them. Don't fancy they are too old — try 'em. And they 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 335 

will remember you, and bless you in future days ; and their 
gratitude shall accompany your dreary after life ; and they shall 
meet you kindly when thanks for kindness are scant. Oh 
mercy ! shall I ever forget that sovereign you gave me, Cap- 
tain Bob ? or the agonies of being in debt to Hawker ? In 
that very term, a relation of mine was going to India. I actu- 
ally was fetched from school in order to take leave of him. I 
am afraid I told Hawker of this circumstance. I own I specu- 
lated upon my friend's giving me a pound. A pound .'' Pooh ! 
A relation going to India, and deeply affected at parting from 
his darling kinsman, might give five pounds to the dear fellow ! 
. . . There was Hawker when I came back — of course there 
he was. As he looked in my scared face, his turned livid with '-' 
rage. He muttered curses, terrible from the lips of so young 
a boy. My relation, about to cross the ocean to fill a lucrative 
appointment, asked me with much interest about my progress 
at school, heard m.e construe a passage of Eutropius, the pleas- 
ing Latin work on which I was then engaged ; gave me a God 
bless you, and sent me back to school ; upon my word of 
honour, without so much as a half-crown ! It is all very well, 
my dear sir, to say that boys contract habits of expecting tips 
from their parents' friends, that they become avaricious, and 
so forth. Avaricious ! fudge ! Boys contract habits of tart and 
toffee eating, which they do not carry into after life. On the 
contrary, I wish I did like 'em. What raptures of pleasure 
one could have now for five shillings, if one could but pick it 
off the pastry-cook's tray ! No. If you have any little friends 
at school, out with your half-crowns, my friend, and impart to 
those little ones the little fleeting joys of their age. 

Weil, then. At the beginning of Augusl^ 1823, Bartlemy- 
tide holidays came, and I was to go to my parents, who were 
at Tunbridge Wells. My place in the coach was taken by my 
tutor's servants — " Bolt-in-Tun," Fleet Street, seven o'clock 
in the morning, was the word. My tutor, the Reverend Edward 

P , to whom I hereby present my best compliments, had 

a parting interview with me : gave me my little account for my 



336 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

governor : the remaining part of the coach-hire ; five shilHngs 
for my own expenses.; and some five-and-twenty shilHngs on 
an old account which had been overpaid, and was to be restored 
to my family. 

Away I ran and paid Hawker his three-and-six. Ouf ! what 
a weight it was off my mind ! (He was a Norfolk boy, and 
used to go home from Mrs. Nelson's " Bell Inn," Aldgate — 
but that is not to the point.) The next morning, of course, 
we were an hour before the time. I and another boy shared 
a hackney-coach, two-and-six ; porter for putting luggage on 
coach, threepence. I had no more money of my own left. 
Rasherwell, my companion, went into the " Bolt-in-Tun " 
coffee-room, and had a good breakfast. I could n't : because, 
though I had five-and-twenty shillings of my parents' money, 
I had none of my own, you see. 

I certainly intended to go without breakfast, and still remem- 
ber how strongly I had that resolution in my mind. But there 
was that hour to wait. A beautiful August morning — I am 
very hungry. There is Rasherwell ''tucking" away in the 
coffee-room. I pace the street, as sadly almost as if I had 
been coming to school, not going thence. I turn into a court 
by mere chance — I vow it was by mere chance — and there 
I see a coffee-shop with a placard in the window. " Coffee, 
Twopence. Round of buttered toast, Twopence." And here 
am I hungry, penniless, with five-and-twenty shillings of my 
parents' money in my pocket. 

What would you have done ^ You see I had had my money, 
and spent it in that pencil-case affair. The five-and-twenty 
shillings were a trust — by me to be handed over. 

But then would my parents wish their only child to be 
actually without breakfast ? Having this money and being 
so hungry, so very hungry, mightn't I take ever so little.? 
Might n't I at home eat as much as I chose ? 

Well, I went into the coffee-shop, and spent fourpence. I 
remember the taste of the coffee and toast to this day — a pe- 
culiar, muddy, not-sweet-enough, most fragrant coffee — a rich, 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 337 

rancid, yet not-buttered-enough, delicious toast. The waiter had 
nothing. At any rate, fourpence, I know, was the sum I spent. 
And the hunger appeased, I got on the coach a guilty being. 

At the last stage, — what is its name .? I have forgotten in 
seven-and-thirty years, — there is an inn with a little green and 
trees before it ; and by the trees there is an open carriage. It is 
our carriage. Yes, there are Prince and Blucher, the horses ; 
and my parents in the carriage. Oh ! how I had been counting 
the days until this one came ! Oh ! how happy had I been to see 
them yesterday ! But there was that fourpence. All the journey 
down the toast had choked me, and the coffee poisoned me. 

I was in such a state of remorse about the fourpence that 
I forgot the maternal joy and caresses, the tender paternal 
voice. I pulled out the twenty-four shillings and eightpence 
with a trembling hand. 

"Here's your money," I gasped out, "which Mr. P 

owes you, all but fourpence. I owed three-and-sixpence to 
Hawker out of my money for a pencil-case, and I had none left, 
and I took fourpence of yours, and had some coffee at a shop." 

I suppose I must have been choking whilst uttering this 
confession. 

" My dear boy," says the governor, " why did n't you go and 
breakfast at the hotel .'' " 

" He must be "starved," says my mother. 

I had confessed ; I had been a prodigal ; I had been taken 
back to my parents' arms again. It was not a very great crime 
as yet, or a very long career of prodigality ; but don't we know 
that a boy who takes a pin which is not his own, will take a 
thousand pounds when occasion serves, bring his parents' grey 
heads with sorrow to the grave, and carry his own to the gal- 
lows ? Witness the career of Dick Idle, upon whom our friend 
Mr. Sala has been discoursing. Dick only began by playing 
pitch-and-toss on a tombstone : playing fair, for what we know : 
and even for that sin he was promptly caned by the beadle. 
The bamboo was ineffectual to cane that reprobate's bad courses 
out of him. From pitch-and-toss he proceeded to manslaughter 



338 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

if necessary : to highway robbery ; to Tyburn and the rope 
there. Ah ! Heaven be thanked, my parents' heads are still 
above the grass, and mine still out of the noose. 

As I look up from my desk, I see Tunbridge Wells Com- 
mon and the rocks, the strange familiar place which I remem- 
ber forty years ago. Boys saunter over the green with stumps 
and cricket-bats. Other boys gallop by on the riding-master's 
hacks. I protest it is '' Cramp, Riding Master," as it used to 
be in the reign of George IV, and that Centaur Cramp must 
be at least a hundred years old. Yonder comes a footman 
with a bundle of novels from the librar)^ Are they as good 
as our novels ] Oh ! how delightful they were ! Shades of 
Valancour, awful ghost of Manfroni, how I shudder at your 
appearance ! Sweet image of Thaddeus of Warsaw, how often 
has this almost infantile hand tried to depict you in a Polish 
cap and richly embroidered tights ! And as for Corinthian 
Tom in light blue pantaloons and hessians, and Jerry Haw- 
thorn from the country, can all the fashion, can all the splen- 
dour of real life which these eyes have subsequently beheld, 
can all the wit I have heard or read in later times, compare 
with your fashion, with your brilliancy, with your delightful 
grace, and sparkling vivacious rattle t 

Who knows } They may have kept those very books at the 
library still — at the well-remembered library on the Pantiles, 
where they sell that delightful, useful Tunbridge ware. I will 
go and see. I wend my way to the Pantiles, the queer little 
old-world Pantiles, where, a hundred years since, so much 
good company came to take its pleasure. Is it possible, that 
in the past century, gentlefolks of the first rank (as I read 
lately in a lecture on George II in the Cornhill Magazine) 
assembled here and entertained each other with gaming, 
dancing, fiddling, and tea } There are fiddlers, harpers, and 
trumpeters performing at this moment in a weak little old 
balcony, but where is the fine company } Where are the earls, 
duchesses, bishops, and magnificent embroidered gamesters ? 
A half-dozen of children and their nurses are listening to the 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 339 

musicians ; an old lady or two in a poke bonnet passes ; and 
for the rest, I see but an uninteresting population of native 
tradesmen. As for the library, its window is full of pictures of 
burly theologians, and their works, sermons, apologues, and so 
forth. Can I go in and ask the young ladies at the counter 
for Manf7'oiii, 01^ the One-handed Monk, and Life in London, 
or the Adventures of Corinthian Tom, JeremiaJi LLawthorn, 
Esqttiir, and their friend Bob Logic ? — absurd. I turn away 
abashed from the casement — from the Pantiles — no longer 
Pantiles — but Parade. I stroll over the Common and survey 
the beautiful purple hills around, twinkling with a thousand 
bright villas, which have sprung up over this charming ground 
since first I saw it. What an admirable scene of peace and 
plenty ! What a delicious air breathes over the heath, blows 
the cloud-shadows across it, and murmurs through the full- 
clad trees ! Can the world show a land fairer, richer, more 
cheerful } I see a portion of it when I look up from the 
window at which I write. But fair scene, green woods, bright 
terraces gleaming in sunshine, and purple clouds swollen with 
summer rain — nay, the very pages over which my head 
bends — disappear from before my eyes. They are looking 
backwards, back into forty years off, into a dark room, into a 
little house hard by on the Common here, in the Bartlemytide 
holidays. The parents have gone to town for two days : the 
house is all his own, his own and a grim old maid-servant's, 
and a little boy is seated at night in the lonely drawing-room, 
poring over Manfroni, or the One-handed Monk, so frightened 
that he scarcely dares to turn round. 

ON BEING FOUND OUT 

Cornhill Magazine^ May, 1861 

At the close (let us say) of Queen Anne's reign, when I was 
a boy at a private and preparatory school for young gentle- 
men, I remember the wiseacre of a master ordering us all, 
one night, to march into a little garden at the back of the 



340 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

house, and thence to proceed one by one into a tool- or hen- 
house (I was but a tender httle thing just put into short 
clothes, and can't exactly say whether the house was for tools 
or hens), and in that house to put our hands into a sack 
which stood on a bench, a candle burning beside it. I put 
my hand into the sack. My hand came out quite black. I 
went and joined the other boys in the schoolroom ; and all 
their hands were black too. 

By reason of my tender age (and there are some critics who, 
I hope, will be satisfied by my acknowledging that I am a 
hundred and fifty-six next birthday) I could not understand 
what was the meaning of this night excursion — this candle, 
this tool-house, this bag of soot. I think we little boys were 
taken out of our sleep to be brought to the ordeal. We came, 
then, and showed our little hands to the master ; washed 
them or not — most probably, I should say, not — and so went 
bewildered back to bed. 

Something had been stolen in the school that day ; and 
Mr. Wiseacre having read in a book of an ingenious method 
of finding out a thief by making him put his hand into a sack 
(which, if guilty, the rogue would shirk from doing), all we 
boys were subjected to the trial. Goodness knows what the 
lost object was, or who stole it. We all had black hands to 
show to the master. And the thief, whoever he was, was not 
Found Out that time. 

I wonder if the rascal is alive — an elderly scoundrel he 
must be by this time ; and a hoary old hypocrite, to whom an 
old schoolfellow presents his kindest regards — parenthetically 
remarking what a dreadful place that private school was : cold, 
chilblains, bad dinners, not enough victuals, and caning awful ! 
— Are you alive still, I say, you nameless villain, who escaped 
discovery on that day of crime ? I hope you have escaped 
often since, old sinner. Ah, what a lucky thing it is, for you 
and me, my man, that we are not found out in all our pecca- 
dilloes ; and that our backs can slip away from the master and 
the cane ! 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 341 

Just consider what life would be, if every rogue was found 
out, and flogged coram popido \ What a butchery, what an 
indecency, what an endless swishing of the rod ! Don't cry 
out about my misanthropy. My good friend Mealymouth, I 
will trouble you to tell me, do you go to church ? When there, 
do you say, or do you not, that you are a miserable sinner ? 
and saying so, do you believe or disbelieve it ? If you are a 
M.S., don't you deserve correction, and aren't you grateful 
if you are to be let off 1 I say, again, what a blessed thing it 
is that we are not all found out ! 

Just picture to yourself everybody who does wrong being 
found out, and punished accordingly. Fancy all the boys in 
all the school being whipped ; and then the assistants, and 
then the head master (Doctor Badford let us call him). Fancy 
the provost-marshal being tied up, having previously superin- 
tended the correction of the whole army. After the young 
gentlemen have had their turn for the faulty exercises, fancy 
Doctor Lincolnsinn being taken up for certain faults in his 
Essay and Review. After the clergyman has cried his peccavi, 
suppose we hoist up a Bishop, and give him a couple of dozen ! 
(I see my Lord Bishop of Double-Gloucester sitting in a very 
uneasy posture on his right reverend bench.) After we have 
cast off the Bishop, what are we to say to the Minister who 
appointed him 1 My Lord Cinqwarden, it is painful to have 
to use personal correction to a boy of your age ; but really . . . 
Siste tandem, carnifex ! The butchery is too horrible. The 
hand drops powerless, appalled at the quantity of birch which 
it must cut and brandish. I am glad we are not all found out, 
I say again ; and protest, my dear brethren, against our having 
our deserts. 

To fancy all men found out and punished is bad enough ; 
but imagine all women found out in the distinguished social 
circle in which you and I have the honour to move. Is it not 
a mercy that so many of these fair criminals remain unpunished 
and undiscovered .? There is Mrs. Longbow, who is for ever 
practising, and who shoots poisoned arrows, too ; when you 



342 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

meet her you don't call her liar, and charge her with the 
wickedness she has done, and is doing. There is Mrs. Painter, 
who passes for a most respectable woman, and a model in 
society. There is no use in saying what you really know 
regarding her and her goings on. There is Diana Hunter — 
what a little haughty prude it is ; and yet zve know stories 
about her which are not altogether edifying. I say it is best, 
for the sake of the good, that the bad should not all be found 
out. You don't want your children to know the history of that 
lady in the next box, who is so handsome, and whom they 
admire so. Ah me ! what would life be if we were all found 
out, and punished for all our faults } Jack Ketch would be in 
permanence ; and then who would hang Jack Ketch .? 

They talk of murderers being pretty certainly found out. 
Psha ! I have heard an authority awfully competent vow and 
declare that scores and hundreds of murders are committed, 
and nobody is the wiser. That terrible man mentioned one 
or two ways of committing murder, which he maintained were 
quite common, and were scarcely ever found out. A man, for 
instance, comes home to his wife, and . . . but I pause — I 
know that this Magazine has a very large circulation. Hun- 
dreds and hundreds of thousands — why not say a million of 
people at once } — well, say a million read it. And amongst 
these countless readers, I might be teaching some monster how 
to make away with his wife without being found out, some 
fiend of a woman how to destroy her dear husband. I will 
not then tell this easy and simple way of murder, as communi- 
cated to me by a most respectable party in the confidence of 
private intercourse. Suppose some gentle reader were to try 
this most simple and easy receipt — it seems to me almost 
infallible — and come to grief in consequence, and be found 
out and hanged .? Should I ever pardon myself for having 
been the means of doing injury to a single one of our esteemed 
subscribers } The prescription whereof I speak — that is to 
say whereof I dont speak — shall be buried in this bosom. 
No, lam a humane man. I am not one of your Bluebeards 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 343 

to go and say to my wife, '' My dear ! I am going away for a 
few days to Brighton. Here are all the keys of the house. 
You may open every door and closet, except the one at the 
end of the oak-room opposite the fireplace, with the little bronze 
Shakspeare on the mantelpiece (or what not)." I don't say this 
to a woman — unless, to be sure, I want to get rid of her — 
because, after such a caution, I know she '11 peep into the closet. 
I say nothing about the closet at all. I keep the key in my 
pocket, and a being whom I love, but who, as I know, has 
many weaknesses, out of harm's way. You toss up your head, 
dear angel, drub on the ground with your lovely little feet, on 
the table with your sweet rosy fingers, and cry, '' Oh, sneerer ! 
You don't know the depth of woman's feeling, the lofty scorn 
of all deceit, the entire absence of mean curiosity in the sex, 
or never, never would you libel us so ! " Ah, Delia ! dear dear 
Delia ! It is because I fancy I do know something about you 
(not all, mind — no, no ; no man knows that) — Ah, my bride, 
my ringdove, my rose, my poppet — - choose, in fact, whatever 
name you like — bulbul of my grove, fountain of my desert, 
sunshine of my darkling life, and joy of my dungeoned exist- 
ence, it is because I do know a little about you that I conclude 
to say nothing of that private closet, and keep my key in my 
pocket. You take away that closet-key then, and the house- 
key. You lock Delia in. You keep her out of harm's way 
and gadding, and so she never can be found out. 

And yet by little strange accidents and coincidences how we 
are being found out every day. You remember that old story 
of the Abbe Kakatoes, who told the company at supper one 
night how the first confession he ever received was — from a 
murderer let us say. Presently enters to supper the Marquis 
de Croquemitaine. " Palsambleu, abbe ! " says the brilliant 
Marquis, taking a pinch of snuff, ''are you here.'* Gentlemen 
and ladies ! I was the abbe's first penitent, and I made him 
a confession which I promise you astonished him." 

To be sure how queerly things are found out ! Here is an in- 
stance. Only the other day I was writing in these Roimdabout 



344 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Papers about a certain man, whom I facetiously called Baggs, 
and who had abused me to my friends, who of course told 
me. Shortly after that paper was published another friend — 
Sacks let us call him — scowls fiercely at me as I am sitting 
in perfect good-humour at the club, and passes on without 
speaking. A cut. A quarrel. Sacks thinks it is about him 
that I was writing : whereas, upon my honour and conscience, 
I never had him once in my mind, and was pointing my moral 
from quite another man. But don't you see, by this wrath of 
the guilty-conscienced Sacks, that he had been abusing me 
too } He has owned himself guilty, never having been ac- 
cused. He has winced when nobody thought of hitting him. 
I did but put the cap out, and madly butting and chafing, 
behold my friend rushes to put his head into it ! Never mind, 
Sacks, you are found out ; but I bear you no malice, my man. 

And yet to be found out, I know from my own experience, 
must be painful and odious, and cruelly mortifying to the in- 
ward vanity. Suppose I am a poltroon, let us say. With fierce 
moustache, loud talk, plentiful oaths, and an immense stick, I 
keep up nevertheless a character for courage. I swear fearfully 
at cabmen and women ; brandish my bludgeon, and perhaps 
knock down a little man or two with it : brag of the images 
which I break at the shooting-gallery, and pass amongst my 
friends for a whiskery fire-eater, afraid of neither man nor 
dragon. Ah me ! Suppose some brisk little chap steps up 
and gives me a caning in St. James's Street, with all the 
heads of my friends looking out of all the club windows. My 
reputation is gone. I frighten no man more. My nose is 
pulled by whipper-snappers, who jump up on a chair to reach 
it. I am found out. And in the days of my triumphs, when 
people were yet afraid of me, and were taken in by my swag- 
ger, I always knew that I was a lily-liver, and expected that 
I should be found out some day. 

That certainty of being found out must haunt and depress 
many a bold braggadocio spirit. Let us say it is a clergyman, 
who can pump copious floods of tears out of his own eyes 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 345 

and those of his audience. He thinks to himself, " I am but 
a poor swindUng chattering rogue. My bills are unpaid. I 
have jilted several women whom I have promised to marry. 
I don't know whether I believe what I preach, and I know 
I have stolen the very sermon over which I have been snivel- 
ling. Have they found me out?" says he, as his head drops 
down on the cushion. 

Then your writer, poet, historian, novelist, or what not .'' 
The Beacon says that "Jones's work is one of the first 
order." The Lamp declares that ''Jones's tragedy surpasses 
every work since the days of Him of Avon." The Comet 
asserts that "J.'s Life of Goody Tzvo-shoes is a KTrnxa e? ael, 
a noble and enduring monument to the fame of that ad- 
mirable Englishwoman," and so forth. But then Jones knows 
that he has lent the critic of the Beacon five pounds ; that his 
publisher has a half-share in the Lamp ; and that the Comet 
comes repeatedly to dine with him. It is all very well. Jones 
is immortal until he is found out ; and then down comes the 
extinguisher, and the immortal is dead and buried. The idea 
{dies irce !) of discovery must haunt many a man, and make 
him uneasy, as the trumpets are puffing in his triumph. 
Brown, who has a higher place than he deserves, cowers 
before Smith, who has found him out. What is a chorus of 
critics shouting- "Bravo".? — a public clapping hands and 
flinging garlands } Brown knows that Smith has found him 
out. Puff, trumpets ! Wave, banners ! Huzza, boys, for the 
immortal Brown ! " This is all very well," B. thinks (bowing 
the while, smiling, laying his hand to his heart) ; " but there 
stands Smith at the window : Jie has measured me ; and some 
day the others will find me out too." It is a very curious 
sensation to sit by a man who has found you out, and who 
you know has found you out ; or, vice versa, to sit with a 
man whom yoii have found out. His talent } Bah ! His vir- 
tue } We know a little story or two about his virtue, and he 
knows we know it. We are thinking over friend Robinson's 
antecedents, as we grin, bow, and talk ; and we are both 



346 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

humbugs together. Robinson a good fellow, is he ? You know 
how he behaved to Hicks ? A good-natured man, is he ? Pray 
do you remember that little story of Mrs. Robinson's black 
eye } How men have to work, to talk, to smile, to go to bed, 
and try to sleep, with this dread of being found out on their 
consciences ! Bardolph, who has robbed a church, and Nym, 
who has taken a purse, go to their usual haunts, and smoke 
their pipes with their companions. Mr. Detective Bulls-eye 
appears, and says, " Oh, Bardolph, I want you about that 
there pyx business ! " Mr. Bardolph knocks the ashes out of 
his pipe, puts out his hands to the little steel cuffs, and walks 
away quite meekly. He is found out. He must go. " Good- 
bye, Doll Tearsheet ! Good-bye, Mrs. Quickly, ma'am ! " 
The other gentlemen and ladies de la societe look on and 
exchange mute adieux with the departing friends. And an 
assured time will come when the other gentlemen and ladies 
will be found out too. 

What a wonderful and beautiful provision of nature it has 
been that, for the most part, our womankind are not endowed 
with the faculty of finding us out ! They don't doubt, and 
probe, and weigh, and take your measure. Lay down this 
paper, my benevolent friend and reader, go into your drawing- 
room now, and utter a joke ever so old, and I wager sixpence 
the ladies there will all begin to laugh. Go to Brown's house, 
and tell Mrs. Brown and the young ladies what you think of 
him, and see what a welcome you will get ! In like manner, 
let him come to your house, and tell your good lady his 
candid opinion of you, and fancy how she will receive him ! 
Would you have your wife and children know you exactly for 
what you are, and esteem you precisely at your worth t If so, my 
friend, you will live in a dreary house, and you will have but a 
chilly fireside. Do you suppose the people round it don't see 
your homely face as under a glamour, and, as it were, with a 
halo of love round it } You don't fancy you ai'e, as you seem 
to them } No such thing, my man. Put away that monstrous 
conceit, and be thankful that they have not found you out. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 34;^ 

DE FINIBUS 

Corn hill Magazine^ August, 1 862 

When Swift was in love with Stella, and despatching her a 
letter from London thrice a month, by the Irish packet, you 
may remember how he would begin Letter No. xxiii, we will 
say, on the very day when xxii had been sent away, stealing 
out of the coffee-house or the assembly so as to be able to 
prattle with his dear; ''never letting go her kind hand, as it 
were," as some commentator or other has said in speaking 
of the Dean and his amour. When Mr. Johnson, walking to 
Dodsley's, and' touching the posts in Pall Mall as he walked, 
forgot to pat the head of one of them, he went back and 
imposed his hands on it, — impelled I know not by what 
superstition. I have this I hope not dangerous mania too. 
As soon as a piece of work is out of hand, and before going 
to sleep, I like to begin another ; it may be to write only 
half-a-dozen lines : but that is something towards Number the 
Next. The printer's boy has not yet reached Green Arbour 
Court with the copy. Those people who were alive half-an- 
hour since, Pendennis, Clive Newcome, and (what do you 
call him } what was the name of the last hero } I remember 
now !) Philip Firmin, have hardly drunk their glass of wine, 
and the mammas have only this minute got the children's 
cloaks on, and have been bowed out of my premises — and 
here I come back to the study again : tamen ttsqiie reci0To. 
How lonely it looks now all these people are gone ! My dear 
good friends, some folk are utterly tired of you, and say, 
'' What a poverty of friends the man has ! He is always 
asking us to meet those Pendennises, Newcomes, and so 
forth. Why does he not introduce us to some new characters.-* 
Why is he not thrilling like Twostars, learned and profound 
like Threestars, exquisitely humorous and human like Four- 
stars } Why, finally, is he not somebody else t " My good 
people, it is not only impossible to please you all, but it is 



348 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

absurd to try. The dish which one man devours, another 
disUkes. Is the dinner of to-day not to your taste ? Let us 
hope to-morrow's entertainment will be more agreeable. . . . 
I resume my original subject. What an odd, pleasant, humor- 
ous, melancholy feeling it is to sit in the study alone and 
quiet, now all these people are gone who have been boarding 
and lodging with me for twenty months ! They have inter- 
rupted my rest : they have plagued me at all sorts of minutes : 
they have thrust themselves upon me when I was ill, or 
wished to be idle, and I have growled out a " Be hanged to 
you, can't you leave me alone now ? " Once or twice they 
have prevented my going out to dinner. Many and many a 
time they have prevented my coming home, because I knew 
they were there waiting in the study, and a plague take them, 
and I have left home and family, and gone to dine at the 
Club, and told nobody where I went. They have bored me, 
those people. They have plagued me at all sorts of uncom- 
fortable hours. They have made such a disturbance in my 
mind and house, that sometimes I have hardly known what 
was going on in my family and scarcely have heard what my 
neighbour said to me. They are gone at last, and you would 
expect me to be at ease ? Far from it. I should almost be 
glad if Woolcomb would walk in and talk to me ; or Twysden 
reappear, take his place in that chair opposite me, and begin 
one of his tremendous stories. 

Madmen, you know, see visions, hold conversations with, 
even draw the likeness of, people invisible to you and me. Is 
this making of people out of fancy madness ^ and are novel- 
writers at all entitled to strait-waistcoats ? I often forget peo- 
ple's names in life ; and in my own stories contritely own that 
I make dreadful blunders regarding them ; but I declare, my 
dear sir, with respect to the personages introduced into your 
humble servant's fables, I know the people utterly — I know 
the sound of their voices. A gentleman came in to see me 
the other day, who was so like the picture of Philip Firmin 
in Mr. Walker's charming drawings in the Cornhill Magazine 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 349 

that he was quite a curiosity to me. The same eyes, beard, 
shoulders, just as you have seen them from month to month. 
Well, he is not like the Philip P'irmin in my mind. Asleep, 
asleep in the grave, lies the bold, the generous, the reckless, 
the tender-hearted creature whom I have made to pass through 
those adventures which have just been brought to an end. It 
is years since I heard the laughter ringing, or saw the bright 
blue eyes. When I knew him both were young. I become 
young as I think of him. And this morning he was alive 
again in this room, ready to laugh, to fight, to weep. As I 
write, do you know, it is the grey of evening ; the house is 
quiet ; everybody is out ; the room is getting a little dark, and 
I look rather wistfully up from the paper with perhaps ever so 
little fancy that HE MAY COME IN. No.? No move- 
ment. No grey shade, growing more palpable, out of which 
at last look the well-known eyes. No, the printer came and 
took him away with the last page of the proofs. And with 
the printer's boy did the whole cortege of ghosts flit away, 
invisible ! Ha ! stay ! what is this ? Angels and ministers 
of grace ! The door opens, and a dark form — enters, bearing 
a black — a black suit of clothes. It is John. He says it is 
time to dress for dinner. 



Every man who has had his German tutor, and has been 
coached through the famous Fa?/st of Goethe (thou wert 
my instructor, good old Weissenborn, and these eyes beheld 
the great master himself in dear little Weimar town !) has 
read those charming verses which are prefixed to the drama, 
in which the poet reverts to the time when his work was first 
composed, and recalls the friends now departed, who once 
listened to his song. The dear shadows rise up around him, 
he says ; he lives in the past again. It is to-day which appears 
vague and visionary. We humbler writers cannot create Fausts, 
or raise up monumental works that shall endure for all ages ; 
but our books are diaries, in which our own feelings must of 



350 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

necessity be set down. As we look to the page written last 
month, or ten years ago, we remember the day and its events ; 
the child ill, mayhap, in the adjoining room, and the doubts 
and fears which racked the brain as it still pursued its work ; 
the dear old friend who read the commencement of the tale, 
and whose gentle hand shall be laid in ours no more. I own 
for my part that, in reading pages which this hand penned 
formerly, I often lose sight of the text under my eyes. It is 
not the words I see ; but that past day ; that bygone page of 
life's history ; that tragedy, comedy it may be, which our little 
home-company was enacting ; that merry-making which we 
shared ; that funeral which we followed ; that bitter bitter 
grief which we buried. 

And, such being the state of my mind, I pray gentle read- 
ers to deal kindly with their humble servant's manifold short- 
comings, blunders, and slips of memory. As sure as I read 
a page of my own composition, I find a fault or two, half-a- 
dozen. Jones is called Brown. Brown, who is dead, is brought 
to life. Aghast, and months after the number was printed, I 
saw that I had called Philip Firmin, Clive Newcome. Now 
Clive Newcome is the hero of another story by the reader's 
most obedient writer. The two men are as different in my 
mind's eye, as — as Lord Palmerston and Mr. Disraeli let us 
say. But there is that blunder at page 990, line "jG, volume 84 
of the Cornhill Magazine, and it is past mending ; and I wish 
in my life I had made no worse blunders or errors than that 
which is hereby acknowledged. 

Another Finis written. Another mile-stone passed on this 
journey from birth to the next world ! Sure it is a subject for 
solemn cogitation. Shall we continue this story-telling business 
and be voluble to the end of our age ! Will it not be presently 
time, O prattler, to- hold your tongue, and let younger people 
speak ! I have a friend, a painter, who, like other persons 
who shall be nameless, is growing old. He has never painted 
with such laborious finish as his works now show. This mas- 
ter is still the most humble and diligent of scholars. Of Art, 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 35 1 

his mistress, he is always an eager, reverent pupil. In his 
calling, in yours, in mine, industry and humility will help and 
comfort us. A word with you. In a pretty large experience 
I have not found the men who write books superior in wit or 
learning to those who don't write at all. In regard of mere 
information, non-writers must often be superior to writers. 
You don't expect a lawyer in full practice to be conversant 
with all kinds of literature ; he is too busy with his law ; and 
so a writer is commonly too busy with his own books to be 
able to bestow attention on the works of other people. After 
a day's work (in which I have been depicting, let us say, the 
agonies of Louisa on parting with the Captain, or the atro- 
cious behaviour of the wicked Marquis to Lady Emily) I march 
to the Club, proposing to improve my mind and keep myself 
''posted up," as the Americans phrase it, in the literature of 
the day. And what happens .'' Given a walk after luncheon, 
a pleasing book, and a most comfortable arm-chair by the fire, 
and you know the rest. A doze ensues. Pleasing book drops 
suddenly, is picked up once with an air of some confusion, 
is laid presently softly in lap : head falls on comfortable arm- 
chair cushion : eyes close : soft nasal music is heard. Am I 
telling Club secrets ? Of afternoons, after lunch, I say, scores 
of sensible fogies have a doze. Perhaps I have fallen asleep 
over that very book to which " Finis " has just been written. 
"And if the writer sleeps, what happens to the readers.?" 
says Jones, coming down upon me with his lightning wit. 
What } you did sleep over it ? And a very good thing too. 
These eyes have more than once seen a friend dozing over 
pages which this hand has written. There is a vignette some- 
where in one of my books of a friend so caught napping with 
Pendemiis, or The Newcomes, in his lap ; and if a writer 
can give you a sweet, soothing, harmless sleep, has he not 
done you a kindness "^ So is the author who excites and in- 
terests you worthy of your thanks and benedictions. I am 
troubled with fever and ague, that seize me at odd intervals 
and prostrate me for a day. There is cold fit, for which, I am 



352 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

thankful to say, hot brandy-and-water is prescribed ; and this 
induces hot fit, and so on. In one or two of these fits I have 
read novels with the most fearful contentment of mind. Once 
on the Mississippi, it was my dearly beloved Jacob Faithful : 
once, at Frankfort O. M., the delightful Vingt Aits Apres 
of Monsieur Dumas : once, at Tunbridge Wells, the thrilling 
Woman in White : and these books gave me amusement 
from morning till sunset. I remember those ague fits with a 
great deal of pleasure and gratitude. Think of a whole day in 
bed, and a good novel for a companion ! No cares : no re- 
morse about idleness : no visitors : and the Woman in White 
or the Chevalier d'Artagnan to tell me stories from dawn to 
night! "Please, ma'am, my master's compliments, and can 
he have the third volume t " (This message was sent to an 
astonished friend and neighbour who lent me, volume by 
volume, the W. in W.) How do you like your novels ? I like 
mine strong, '' hot with," and no mistake : no love-making : no 
observations about society : little dialogue, except where the char- 
acters are bullying each other : plenty of fighting : and a vil- 
lain in the cupboard, who is to suffer tortures just before Finis. 
I don't like your melancholy Finis. I never read the history 
of a consumptive heroine twice. If I might give a short hint 
to an impartial writer (as the Examiner used to say in old 
days), it would be to act, not a la mode le pays de Pole (I 
think that was the phraseology) but ahvays to give quarter. 
In the story of Philip, just come to an end, I have the per- 
mission of the author to state that he was going to drown the 
two villains of the piece — a certain Doctor F and a cer- 
tain Mr. T. H on board the President, or some other 

tragic ship — but you see I relented. I pictured to myself 
Firmin's ghastly face amid the crowd of shuddering people on 
that reeling deck in the lonely ocean and thought, '' Thou 
ghastly lying wretch, thou shalt not be drowned ; thou shalt 
have a fever only ; a knowledge of thy danger ; and a chance 
— ever so small a chance — of repentance." I wonder whether 
he did repent when he found himself in the yellow-fever, in 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 353 

Virginia ? The probability is he fancied that his son had in- 
jured him very much, and forgave him on his death-bed. Do 
you imagine there is a great deal of genuine right-down re- 
morse in the world ? Don't people rather find excuses which 
make their minds easy ; endeavour to prove to themselves that 
they have been lamentably belied and misunderstood ; and try 
and forgive the persecutors who ivill present that bill when it 
is due ; and not bear malice against the cruel ruffian who takes 
them to the police-office for stealing the spoons ? Years ago 
I had a quarrel with a certain well-known person (1 believed 
a statement regarding him which his friends imparted to me, 
and which turned out to be quite incorrect). To his dying day 
that quarrel was never quite made up. I said to his brother, 
'' Why is your brother's soul still dark against me ? It is I 
who ought to be angry and unforgiving : for I was in the 
wrong." In the region which they now inhabit (for Finis has 
been set to the volumes of the lives of both here below), if 
they take any cognisance of our squabbles, and tittle-tattles, 
and gossips on earth here, I hope they admit that my little 
error was not of a nature unpardonable. If you have never 
committed a worse, my good sir, surely the score against you 
will not be heavy. Ha, dilectissimi fraU-es ! It is in regard 
of sins not found out that we may say or sing (in an under- 
tone in a most penitent and lugubrious minor key), " Miserere 
nobis miseris peccatoribus." 

Among the sins of commission which novel-writers not 
seldom perpetrate, is the sin of grancHloquence, or tall-talking, ^ 
against which, for my part, I will offer up a special libera me. 
This is the sin of schoolmasters, governesses, critics, ser- 
moners, and instructors of young or old people. Nay (for I 
am making a clean breast, and liberating my soul), perhaps 
of all the novel-spinners now extant, the present speaker is 
the most addicted to preaching. Does he not stop perpetually 
in his story and begin to preach to you } When he ought to 
be engaged with business, is he not for ever taking the Muse 
by the sleeve, and plaguing her with some of his cynical 



354 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

sermons ? I oxy peccavi loudly and heartily. I tell you I would 
like to be able to write a story which should show no egotism 
whatever — in which there should be no reflections, no cyni- 
cism, no vulgarity (and so forth), but an incident in every other 
page, a villain, a battle, a mystery in every chapter. I should 
like to be able to feed a reader so spicily as to leave him hun- 
gering and thirsting for more at the end of every monthly meal. 
Alexandre Dumas describes himself, when inventing the 
plan of a work, as lying silent on his back for two whole days 
on the deck of a yacht in a Mediterranean port. At the end 
of the two days he arose and called for dinner. In those two 
days he had built his plot. He had moulded a mighty clay, 
to be cast presently in perennial brass. The chapters, the 
characters, the incidents, the combinations were all arranged 
in the artist's brain ere he set a pen to paper. My Pegasus 
won't fly, so as to let me survey the field below me. He has 
no wings, he is blind of one eye certainly ; he is restive, stub- 
born, slow ; crops a hedge when he ought to be galloping, or 
gallops when he ought to be quiet. He never will show off 
when I want him. Sometimes he goes at a pace which sur- 
prises me. Sometimes, when I most wish him to make the 
running, the brute turns restive, and I am obliged to let him 
take his own time. I wonder do other novel-writers experience 
this fatalism ? They must go a certain way, in spite of them- 
selves. I have been surprised at the observations made by 
some of my characters. It seems as if an occult Power was 
moving the pen. The personage does or says something, and 
I ask, How the dickens did he come to think of that } Every 
man has remarked in dreams, the vast dramatic power which 
is sometimes evinced ; I won't say the surprising power, for 
nothing does surprise you in dreams. But those strange char- 
acters you meet make instant observations of which you never 
can have thought previously. In like manner, the imagination 
foretells things. We spake anon of the inflated style of some 
writers. What also if there is an afflated style, — when a writer 
is like a Pythoness on her oracle tripod, and mighty words, 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 355 

words which he cannot help, come blowing, and bellowing, and 
whistling, and moaning through the speaking pipes of his 
bodily organ ? I have told you it was a very queer shock to 
me the other day when, with a letter of introduction in his 
hand, the artist's (not my) Philip Plrmin walked into this 
room, and sat down in the chair opposite. In the novel of 
Peiidennis^ written ten years ago, there is an account of a 
certain Costigan, whom I had .invented (as I suppose authors 
invent their personages out of scraps, heel-taps, odds and ends 
of characters). I was smoking in a tavern parlour one night — 
and this Costigan came into the room alive — the very man : 
— the most remarkable resemblance of the printed sketches 
of the man, of the rude drawings in which I had depicted 
him. He had the same little coat, the same battered hat, 
cocked on one eye, the same twinkle in that eye. " Sir," 
said I, knowing him to be an old friend whom I had met in 
unknown regions, " sir," I said, '' may I offer you a glass of 
brandy-and-water .? " '' Bedad, ye may,'' says he, ^'' mid I'll 
sing ye a song in." Of course he spoke with an Irish brogue. 
Of course he had been in the army. In ten minutes he pulled 
out an Army Agent's account, whereon his name was written. 
A few months after we read of him in a police-court. How 
had I come to know him, to divine him ? Nothing shall con- 
vince me that I have not seen that man in the world of spirits. 
In the world of spirits and water I know I did : but that is a 
mere quibble of words. I was not surprised when he spoke in 
an Irish brogue. I had had cognisance of him before some- 
how. Who has not felt that little shock which arises when a 
person, a place, some words in a book (there is always a collo- 
cation) present themselves to you, and you know that you have 
before met the same person, words, scene, and so forth .? 

They used to call the good Sir Walter the '' Wizard of the 
North." What if some writer should appear who can write so 
enchantingly that he shall be able to call into actual life the 
people whom he invents .? What if Mignon, and Margaret, 
and Goetz von Berlichingen are alive now (though I don't 



356 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

say they are visible), and Dugald Dalgetty and Ivanhoe were 
to step in at that open window by the httle garden yonder ? 
Suppose Uncas and our noble old Leather-stocking were to 
glide silently in ? Suppose Athos, Porthos, and Aramis should 
enter with a noiseless swagger, curling their moustaches ? 
And dearest Amelia Booth, on Uncle Toby's arm ; and Tittle- 
bat Titmouse, with his hair dyed green ; and all the Crummies 
company of comedians, with the Gil Bias troop; and Sir Roger 
de Coverley; and the greatest of all crazy gentlemen, the Knight 
of La Mancha, with his blessed squire ? I say to you, I look 
rather wistfully towards the window, musing upon these people. 
Were any of them to enter, I think I should not be very much 
frightened. Dear old friends, what pleasant hours I have had 
with them ! We do not see each other very often, but when 
we do, we are ever happy to meet. I had a capital half-hour 
with Jacob Faithful last night ; when the last sheet was cor- 
rected, when " Finis," had been written, and the printer's boy, 
with the copy, was safe in Green Arbour Court. 

So you are gone, little printer's boy, with the last scratches 
and corrections on the proof, and a fine flourish by way of 
Finis at the story's end. The last corrections } I say those 
last corrections seem never to be finished. A plague upon the 
weeds ! Every day, when I walk in my own little literary 
garden-plot, I spy some, and should like to have a spud, and 
root them out. Those idle words, neighbour, are past remedy. 
That turning back to the old pages produces anything but ela- 
tion of mind. Would you not pay a pretty fine to be able to 
cancel some of them ? Oh, the sad old pages, the dull old 
pages ! Oh, the cares, the ennui, the squabbles, the repetitions, 
the old conversations over and over again. But now and again 
a kind thought is recalled, and now and again a dear memory. 
Yet a few chapters more, and then the last : after which, 
behold Finis itself come to an end, and the Infinite begun. 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894) 

WALKING TOURS 

Cornhill Magazine^ June, 1876 

It must not be imagined that a walking tour, as some would 
have us fancy, is merely a better or worse way of seeing the 
country. There are many ways of seeing landscape quite as 
good ; and none more vivid, in spite of canting dilettantes, 
than from a railway train. But landscape on a walking tour is 
quite accessory. He who is indeed of the brotherhood does 
not voyage in quest of the picturesque, but of certain jolly 
humours — of the hope and spirit with which the march begins 
at morning, and the peace and spiritual repletion of the eve- 
ning's rest. He cannot tell whether he puts his knapsack on, 
or takes it off, with more delight. The excitement of the 
departure puts him in key for that of the arrival. Whatever 
he does is not only a reward in itself, but will be further re- 
warded in the sequel ; and so pleasure leads on to pleasure in 
an endless chain. It is this that so few can understand ; they 
will either be always lounging or always at five miles an hour ; 
they do not play off the one against the other, prepare all day 
for the evening, and all evening for the next day. And, above 
all, it is here that your overwalker fails of comprehension. 
His heart rises against those who drink their curagoa in liqueur 
glasses, when he himself can swill it in a brown John. He will 
not believe that the flavour is more delicate in the smaller dose. 
He will not believe that to walk this unconscionable distance 
is merely to stupefy and brutalise himself, and come to his 
inn, at night, with a sort of frost on his five wits, and a star- 
less night of darkness in his spirit. Not for him the mild 
luminous evening of the temperate walker ! He has nothing 

357 



353 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

left of man but a physical need for bedtime and a double 
night-cap ; and even his pipe, if he be a smoker, will be savour- 
less and disenchanted. It is the fate of such an one to take 
twice as much trouble as is needed to obtain happiness, and 
miss the happiness in the end ; he is the man of the proverb, 
in short, who goes further and fares worse. 

Now, to be properly enj'oyed, a walking tour should be gone 
upon alone. If you go in a company, or even in pairs, it is no 
longer a walking tour in anything but name ; it is something 
else and more in the nature of a picnic. A walking tour 
should be gone upon alone, because freedom is of the essence ; 
because you should be able to stop and go on, and follow this 
way or that, as the freak takes you ; and because you must 
have your own pace, and neither trot alongside a champion 
walker, nor mince in time with a girl. And then you must 
be open to all impressions and let your thoughts take colour 
from what you see. You should be as a pipe for any wind to 
play upon. "I cannot see the wit," says Hazlitt, "of walking 
and talking at the same time. When I am in the country, I 
wish to vegetate like the country," — which is the gist of all 
that can be said upon the matter. There should be no cackle 
of voices at your elbow, to jar on the meditative silence of the 
morning. And so long as a man is reasoning he cannot sur- 
render himself to that fine intoxication that comes of much 
motion in the open air, that begins in a sort of dazzle and 
sluggishness of the brain, and ends in a peace that passes 
comprehension. 

During the first day or so of any tour there are moments 
of bitterness, when the traveller feels more than coldly towards 
his knapsack, when he is half in a mind to throw it bodily 
over the hedge and, like Christian on a similar occasion, ''give 
three leaps and go on singing." And yet it soon acquires a 
property of easiness. It becomes magnetic ; the spirit of the 
journey enters into it. And no sooner have you passed the 
straps over your shoulder than the lees of sleep are cleared 
from you, you pull yourself together with a shake, and fall at 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 359 

once into your stride. And surely, of all possible moods, this, 
in which a man takes the road, is the best. Of course, if he 
ivill keep thinking of his anxieties, if he ivill open the mer- 
chant Abudah's chest and walk arm in arm with the hag — 
why, wherever he -is, and whether he walk fast or slow, the 
chances are that he will not be happy. And so much the 
more shame to himself ! There are perhaps thirty men setting 
forth at that same hour, and I would lay a large wager there 
is not another dull face among the thirty. It would be a fine 
thing to follow, in a coat of darkness, one after another of 
these wayfarers, some summer morning, for the first few miles 
upon the road. This one, who walks fast, with a keen look 
in his eyes, is all concentrated in his own mind ; he is up at 
his loom, weaving and weaving, to set the landscape to words. 
This one peers about, as he goes, among the grasses ; he waits 
by the canal to watch the dragon-flies ; he leans on the gate 
of the pasture, and cannot look enough upon the complacent 
kine. And here comes another, talking, laughing, and ges- 
ticulating to himself. His face changes from time to time, as 
indignation flashes from his eyes or anger clouds his forehead. 
He is composing articles, delivering orations, and conducting 
the most impassioned interviews, by the way. A little farther 
on, and it is as like as not he will begin to sing. And well 
for him, supposing him to be no great master in that art, if 
he stumble across no stolid peasant at a corner ; for on such 
an occasion, I scarcely know which is the more troubled, or 
whether it is worse to suffer the confusion of your troubadour, 
or the unfeigned alarm of your clown. A sedentary popula- 
tion, accustomed, besides, to the strange mechanical bearing 
of the common tramp, can in no wise explain to itself the 
gaiety of these passers-by. I knew one man who was arrested 
as a runaway lunatic, because, although a full-grown person 
with a red beard, he skipped as he went like a child. And 
you would be astonished if I were to tell you all the grave 
and learned heads who have confessed to me that, when on 
walking tours, they sang — and sang very ill — and had a pair 



36o THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

of red ears when, as described above, the inauspicious peasant 
plumped into their arms from round a corner. And here, 
lest you should think I am exaggerating, is Hazlitt's own 
confession, from his essay On Going a Joicrney, which is so 
good that there should be a tax levied on all who have not 
read it : 

'' Give me the clear blue sky over my head," says he, "and 
the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and 
a three hours' march to dinner — and then to thinking! It 
is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths. 
I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy." 

Bravo ! After that adventure of my friend with the police- 
man, you would not have cared, would you, to publish that in 
the first person t But we have no bravery nowadays, and, 
even in books, must all pretend to be as dull and foolish as 
our neighbours. It was not so with Hazlitt. And notice how 
learned he is (as, indeed, throughout the essay) in the theory 
of walking tours. He is none of your athletic men in purple 
stockings, who walk their fifty miles a day : three hours' 
march is his ideal. And then he must have a winding road, 
the epicure \ 

Yet there is one thing I object to in these words of his, 
one thing in the great master's practice that seems to me not 
wholly wise. I do not approve of that leaping and running. 
Both of these hurry the respiration ; they both shake up the 
brain out of its glorious open-air confusion ; and they both 
break the pace. Uneven walking is not so agreeable to the 
body, and it distracts and irritates the mind. Whereas, when 
once you have fallen into an equable stride, it requires no con- 
scious thought frorri you to keep it up, and yet it prevents you 
from thinking earnestly of anything else. Like knitting, like 
the work of a copying clerk, it gradually neutralises and sets 
to sleep the serious activity of the mind. We can think of 
this or that, lightly and laughingly, as a child thinks, or as we 
think in a morning doze ; we can make puns or puzzle out 
acrostics, and trifle in a thousand ways with words and rhymes; 



ROBERT LOITIS STEVENSON 361 

but when it comes to honest work, when we come to gather 
ourselves together for an effort, we may sound the trumpet as 
loud and long as we please ; the great barons of the mind will 
not rally to the standard, but sit, each one, at home, warming 
his hands over his own fire and brooding on his own private 
thought ! 

In the course of a day's walk, you see, there is much 
variance in the mood. From the exhilaration of the start, to 
the happy ■ phlegm of the arrival, the change is certainly great. 
As the day goes on, the traveller moves from the one extreme 
towards the other. He becomes more and more incorporated 
with the material landscape, and the open-air drunkenness 
grows upon him with great strides, until he posts along the 
road, and sees everything about him, as in a cheerful dream. 
The first is certainly brighter, but the second stage is the more 
peaceful. A man does not make so many articles towards the 
end, nor does he laugh aloud ; but the purely animal pleasures, 
the sense of physical wellbeing, the delight of every inhalation, 
of every time the muscles tighten down the thigh, console him 
for the absence of the others, and bring him to his destination 
still content. 

Nor must I forget to say a word on bivouacs. You come 
to a milestone on a hill, or some place where deep ways meet 
under trees ; and off goes the knapsack, and down you sit to 
smoke a pipe in the shade. You sink into yourself, and the 
birds come round and look at you ; and your smoke dissipates 
upon the afternoon under the blue dome of heaven ; and the 
sun lies warm upon your feet, and the cool air visits your neck 
and turns aside your open shirt. If you are not happy, you 
must have an evil conscience. You may dally as long as you 
like by the roadside. It is almost as if the millennium were 
arrived, when we shall throw our clocks and watches over the 
house-top, and remember time and seasons no more. Not to 
keep hours for a lifetime is, I was going to say, to live for 
ever. You have no idea, unless you have tried it, how endlessly 
long is a summer's day, that you measure out only by hunger, 



362 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

and bring to an end only when you are drowsy. I know a 
village where there are hardly any clocks, where no one knows 
more of the days of the week than by a sort of instinct for the 
fete on Sundays, and where only one person can tell you the 
day of the month, and she is generally wrong ; and if people 
were aware how slow Time journeyed in that village, and what 
armfuls of spare hours he gives, over and above the bargain, 
to its wise inhabitants, I believe there would be a stampede 
out of London, Liverpool, Paris, and a variety of large towns, 
where the clocks lose their heads, and shake the hours out 
each one faster than the other, as though they were all in a 
wager. And all these foolish pilgrims would each bring his 
own misery along with him, in a watch-pocket ! It is to be 
noticed, there were no clocks and watches in the much-vaunted 
days before the flood. It follows, of course, there were no ap- 
pointments, and punctuality was not yet thought upon. " Though 
ye take from a covetous man all his treasure," says Milton, 
'' he has yet one jewel left ; ye cannot deprive him of his cov- 
etousness." And so I would say of a modern man of business, 
you may do what you will for him, put him in Eden, give him 
the elixir of life — he has still a flaw at heart, he still has his 
business habits. Now, there is no time when business habits 
are more mitigated than on a walking tour. And so during 
these halts, as I say, you will feel almost free. 

But it is at night, and after dinner, that the best hour 
comes. There are no such pipes to be smoked as those that 
follow a good day's march ; the flavour of the tobacco is a thing 
to be remembered, it is so dry and aromatic, so full and so fine. 
If you wind up the evening with grog, you will own there was 
never such grog ; at every sip a jocund tranquillity spreads 
about your limbs, and sits easily in your heart. If you read a 
book — and you will never do so save by fits and starts — you 
find the language strangely racy and harmonious ; words take 
a new meaning ; single sentences possess the ear for half an 
hour together ; and the writer endears himself to you, at every 
page, by the nicest coincidence of sentiment. It seems as if 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 363 

it were a book you had written yourself in a dream. To all 
we have read on such occasions we look back with special 
favour. " It was on the loth of April, 1798," says Hazlitt, 
with amorous precision, "that I sat down to a volume of the 
new Helo'ise, at the Inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry 
and a cold chicken." I should wish to quote more, for though 
we are mighty fine fellows nowadays, we cannot write like 
Hazlitt. And, talking of that, a volume of Hazlitt's essays 
would be a capital pocket-book on such a journey ; so would 
a volume of Heine's songs ; and for Tristram Shandy I can 
pledge a fair experience. 

If the evening be fine and warm, there is nothing better in 
life than to lounge before the inn door in the sunset, or lean 
over the parapet of the bridge, to watch the weeds and the 
quick fishes. It is then, if ever, that you taste joviality to the 
full significance of that audacious word. Your muscles are so 
agreeably slack, you feel so clean and so strong and so idle, 
that whether you move or sit still, whatever you do is done 
with pride and a kingly sort of pleasure. You fall in talk with 
any one, wise or foolish, drunk or sober. And it seems as if a 
hot walk purged you, more than of anything else, of all narrow- 
ness and pride, and left curiosity to play its part freely, as in a 
child or a man of science. You lay aside all your own hobbies, 
to watch provincial humours develop themselves before you, 
now as a laughable farce, and now grave and beautiful like 
an old tale. 

Or perhaps you are left to your own company for the night, 
and surly weather imprisons you by the fire. You may remem- 
ber how Burns, numbering past pleasures, dwells upon the 
hours when he has been '' happy thinking," It is a phrase 
that may well perplex a poor modern, girt about on every side 
by clocks and chimes, and haunted, even at night, by flaming 
dial-plates. For we are all so busy, and have so many far-off 
projects to realise, and castles in the fire to turn into solid, 
habitable mansions on a gravel soil, that we can find no time 
for pleasure trips into the Land of Thought and among the 



364 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Hills of Vanity. Changed times, indeed, when we must sit 
all night, beside the fire, with folded hands ; and a changed 
world for most of us, when we find we can pass the hours 
without discontent, and be happy thinkihg. We are in such 
haste to be doing, to be writing, to be gathering gear, to make 
our voice audible a moment in the derisive silence of eternity, 
that we forget that one thing, of which these are but the parts 
— namely to live. We fall in love, we drink hard, we run to 
and fro upon the earth like frightened sheep. And now you 
are to ask yourself if, when all is done, you would not have 
been better to sit by the fire at home, and be happy thinking. 
To sit still and contemplate, — to remember the faces of women 
without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men with- 
out envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy, and 
yet content to remain where and what you are — is not this 
to know both wisdom and virtue, and to dwell with happiness ? 
After all, it is not they who carry flags, but they who look upon 
it from a private chamber, who have the fun of the procession. 
And once you are at that, you are in the very humour of all 
social heresy. It is no time for shuflfling, or for big, empty 
words. If you ask yourself what you mean by fame, riches, 
or learning, the answer is far to seek ; and you go back into 
that kingdom of light imaginations, which seem so vain in the 
eyes of Philistines perspiring after wealth, and so momentous 
to those who are stricken with the disproportions of the world, 
and, in the face of the gigantic stars, cannot stop to split dif- 
ferences between two degrees of the infinitesimally small, such 
as a tobacco pipe or the Roman Empire, a million of money 
or a fiddlestick's end. 

You lean from the window, your last pipe reeking whitely 
into the darkness, your body full of delicious pains, your mind 
enthroned in the seventh circle of content; when suddenly the 
mood changes, the weather-cock goes about, and you ask your- 
self one question more : whether, for the interval, you have 
been the wisest philosopher or the most egregious of donkeys ? 
Human experience is not yet able to reply ; but at least you 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ' 365 

have had a fine moment, and looked down upon all the 
kingdoms of the earth. And whether it was wise or foolish, 
to-morrow's travel will carry you, body and mind, into some 
different parish of the infinite. 



ON FALLING IN LOVE 

Cornhill Magazine^ February, 1877 
" Lord, what fools these mortals be ! " 

There is only one event in life which really astonishes a 
man and startles him out of his prepared opinions. Everything 
else befalls him very much as he expected. Event succeeds 
to event, with an agreeable variety indeed, but with little that 
is either startling or intense ; they form together no more than 
a sort of background, or running accompaniment to the man's 
own reflections ; and he falls naturally into a cool, curious, and 
smiling habit of mind, and builds himself up in a conception 
of life which expects to-morrow to be after the pattern of to- 
day and yesterday. He may be accustomed to the vagaries of 
his friends and acquaintances under the influence of love. He 
may sometimes look forward to it for himself with an incom- 
prehensible expectation. But it is a subject in which neither 
intuition nor the behaviour of others will help the philosopher 
to the truth. There is probably nothing rightly thought or 
rightly written on this matter of love that is not a piece of 
the person's experience. I remember an anecdote of a well- 
known French theorist, who was debating a point eagerly in 
his cmacle. It was objected against him that he had never 
experienced love. Whereupon he arose, left the society, and 
made it a point not to return to it until he considered that he 
had supplied the defect. '' Now," he remarked, on 'entering, 
" now I am in a position to continue the discussion." Perhaps 
he had not penetrated very deeply into the subject after all ; 
but the story indicates right thinking, and may serve as an 
apologue to readers of this essay. 



366 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

♦ 

When at last the scales fall from his eyes, it is not without 
something of the nature of dismay that the man finds himself 
in such changed conditions. He has to deal with commanding 
emotions instead of the easy dislikes and preferences in which 
he has hitherto passed his days ; and he recognises capabilities 
for pain and pleasure of which he had not yet suspected the 
existence. Falling in love is the one illogical adventure, the 
one thing of which we are tempted to think as supernatural, 
in our trite and reasonable world. The effect is out of all pro- 
portion with the cause. Two persons, neither of them, it may 
be, very amiable or very beautiful, meet, speak a little, and 
look a little into each other's eyes. That has been done a 
dozen or so of times in the experience of either with no great 
result. But on this occasion all is different. They fall at once 
into that state in which another person becomes to us the 
very gist and centrepoint of God's creation, and demolishes 
our laborious theories with a smile ; in which our ideas are so 
bound up with the one master-thought that even the trivial 
cares of our own person become so many acts of devotion, 
and the love of life itself is translated into a wash to remain 
in the same world with so precious and desirable a fellow- 
creature. And all the while their acquaintances look on in 
stupor, and ask each other, with almost passionate emphasis, 
what so-and-so can see in that woman, or such-an-one in that 
man ? I am sure, gentlemen, I cannot tell you. For my part, 
I cannot think what the women mean. It might be very well, 
if the Apollo Belvedere should suddenly glow all over into 
life, and step forward from the pedestal with that godlike air 
of his. But of the misbegotten changelings who call them- 
selves men, and prate intolerably over dinner-tables, I never 
saw one who seemed worthy to inspire love — no, nor read 
of any, except Leonardo da Vinci, and perhaps Goethe in his 
youth. About women I entertain a somewhat different opinion ; 
but there, I have the misfortune to be a man. 

There are many matters in which you may waylay Destiny, 
and bid him stand and deliver. Hard work, high thinking, 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 365^ 

adventurous excitement, and a great deal more that forms a 
part of this or the other person's spiritual bill of fare, are 
within the reach of almost any one who can dare a little and 
be patient. But it is by no means in the way of every one 
to fall in love. You know the difficulty Shakespeare was put 
into when Queen Elizabeth asked him to show Falstaff in 
love. I do not believe that Henry Fielding was ever in love. 
Scott, if it were not for a passage or two in Rob Roy, would 
give me very much the same effect. These are great names 
and (what is more to the purpose) strong, healthy, highstrung, 
and generous natures, of whom the reverse might have been 
expected. As for the innumerable army of anaemic and tailorish 
persons who occupy the face of this planet with so much pro- 
priety, it is palpably absurd to imagine them in any such 
situation as a love-affair. A wet rag goes safely by the fire ; 
and if a man is blind, he cannot expect to be much impressed 
by. romantic scenery. Apart from all this, many lovable people 
miss each other in the world, or meet under some unfavourable 
star. There is the nice and critical moment of declaration 
to be got over. From timidity or lack of opportunity a good 
half of possible love cases never get so far, and at least 
another quarter do there cease and determine. A very adroit 
person, to be sure, manages to prepare the way and out with 
his declaration in the nick of time. And then there is a fine 
solid sort of man, who goes on from snub to snub ; and if he 
has to declare forty times, will continue imperturbably declar- 
ing, amid the astonished consideration of men and angels, 
until he has a favourable answer. \^ daresay, if one were a 
woman, one would like to marry a man who was capable of 
doing this, but not quite one who had done so. It is just 
a little bit abject, and somehow just a little bit gross ; and 
marriages in which one of the parties has been thus battered 
into consent scarcely form agreeable subjects for meditation. 
Love should run out to meet love with open arm^ Indeed, 
the ideal story is that of two people who go into love step 
for step, with a fluttered consciousness, like a pair of children 



368 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

venturing together into a dark room. From the first moment 
when they see each other, with a pang of curiosity, through 
stage after stage of growing pleasure and embarrassment, they 
can read the expression of their own trouble in each other's 
eyes. There is here no declaration properly so called ; the feel- 
ing is so plainly shared, that as soon as the man knows what it 
is in his own heart, he is sure of what it is in the woman's. 

This simple accident of falling in love is as beneficial as 
it is astonishing. It arrests the petrifying influence of years, 
disproves cold-blooded and cynical conclusions, and awakens 
dormant sensibilities. Hitherto the man had found it a good 
policy to disbelieve the existence of any enjoyment which was 
out of his reach ; and thus he turned his back upon the strong, 
sunny parts of nature, and accustomed himself to look exclu- 
sively on what was common and dull. He accepted a prose 
ideal, let himself go blind of many sympathies by disuse ; and 
if he were young and witty, or beautiful, wilfully forewent 
these advantages. He joined himself to the following of what, 
in the old mythology of love, was prettily called nonchaloir\ 
and in an odd mixture of feelings, a fling of self-respect, a 
preference for selfish liberty, and a great dash of that fear 
with which honest people regard serious interests, kept himself 
back from the straightforward course of life among certain 
selected activities. And now, all of a sudden, he is unhorsed, 
like St. Paul, from his infidel affectation. His heart, which 
has been ticking accurate seconds for the last year, gives a 
bound and begins to beat high and irregularly in his breast. 
It seems as if he had never heard or felt or seen until that 
moment ; and by the report of his memory, he must have 
lived his past life between sleep or waking, or with the 
preoccupied attention of a brown study. He is practically 
incommoded by the generosity of his feelings, smiles much 
when he is alone, and develops a habit of looking rather 
blankly upon the moon and stars. But it is not at all within 
the province of a prose essayist to give a picture of this hyper- 
bolical frame of mind ; and the thing has been done already, 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 369 

and that to admiration. In Adelaide, in Tennyson's Maud, 
and in some of Heine's songs, you get the absolute expression 
of this midsummer spirit. Romeo and JuUet were very much 
in love ; although they tell me some German critics are of a 
different opinion, probably the same who would have us think 
Mercutio a dull fellows Poor Antony was in love, and no 
mistake. That lay figure Marius, in Les Miserables, is also 
a genuine case in his own way, and worth observation. A 
good many of George Sand's people are thoroughly in love ; 
and so are a good many of George Meredith's. Altogether, 
there is plenty to read on the subject. If the root of the 
matter be in him, and if he has the requisite chords to set in 
vibration, a young man may occasionally enter, with the key 
of art, into that land of Beulah which is upon the borders of 
Heaven and within sight of the City of Love. There let him 
sit awhile to hatch delightful hopes and perilous illusions. 

One thing that accompanies the passion in its first blush is 
certainly difficult to explain. It comes (I do not quite see how) 
that from having a very supreme sense of pleasure in all parts 
of life — in lying down to sleep, in waking, in motion, in 
breathing, in continuing to be — the lover begins to regard his 
happiness as beneficial for the rest of the world and highly 
meritorious in himself. Our race has never been able con- 
tentedly to suppose that the noise of its wars, conducted by a 
few young gentlemen in a corner of an inconsiderable star, 
does not re-echo among the courts of Heaven with quite a 
formidable effect. In much the same taste, when people find 
a great to-do in their own breasts, they imagine it must have 
some influence in their neighbourhood. The presence of the 
two lovers is so enchanting to each other that it seems as if 
it must be the best thing possible for everybody else. They 
are half inclined to fancy it is because of them and their love 
that the sky is blue and the sun shines. And certainly the 
weather is usually fine while people are courting. ... In point 
of fact, although the happy man feels very kindly towards 
others of his own sex, there is apt to be something too much 



370 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

of the magnifico in his demeanour. If people grow presuming 
and self-important over such matters as a dukedom or the 
Holy See, they will scarcely support the dizziest elevation in 
life without some suspicion of a strut ; and the dizziest eleva- 
tion is to love and be loved in return. Consequently, accepted 
lovers are a trifle condescending in their address to other men. 
An overweening sense of the passion and importance of life 
hardly conduces to simplicity of manner. To women, they feel 
very nobly, very purely, and very generously, as if they were 
so many Joan-of-Arc's ; but this does not come out in their 
behaviour ; and they treat them to Grandisonian airs marked 
with a suspicion of fatuity. I am not quite certain that women 
do not like this sort of thing ; but really, after having bemused 
myself over Daniel Deronda, I have given up trying to under- 
stand what they likej> 

If it did nothing else, this sublime and ridiculous supersti- 
tion, that the pleasure of the pair is somehow blessed to others, 
and everybody is made happier in their happiness, would serve 
at least to keep love generous and great-hearted. Nor is it 
quite a baseless superstition after all. Other lovers are hugely 
interested. They strike the nicest balance between pity and 
approval, when they see people aping the greatness of their 
own sentiments. It is an understood thing in the play that 
while the young gentlefolk are courting on the terrace, a rough 
flirtation is being carried on, and a light, trivial sort of love 
is growing up, between the footman and the singing chamber- 
maid. As people are generally cast for the leading parts in 
their own imaginations, the reader can apply the parallel to 
real life without much chance of going wrong. In short, they 
are quite sure this other love-affair is not so deep-seated as 
their own, but they like dearly to see it going forward. And 
love, considered as a spectacle, must have attractions for many 
who are not of the confraternity. The sentimental old maid 
is a commonplace of the novelists ; and he must be rather a 
poor sort of human being, to be sure, who can look on at this 
pretty madness without indulgence and sympathy. For nature 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 371 

commends itself to people with a most insinuating art ; the 
busiest is now and again arrested by a great sunset ; and you 
may be as pacific or as cold-blooded as you will, but you cannot 
help some emotion when you read of well-disputed battles, or 
meet a pair of lovers in the lane. 

Certainly, whatever it may be with regard to the world at 
large, this idea of beneficent pleasure is true as between the 
sweethearts. To do good and communicate is the lover's grand 
intention. It is the happiness of the other that makes his own 
most intense gratification. It is not possible to disentangle the 
different emotions, the pride, humility, pity, and passion, which 
are excited by a look of happy love or an unexpected caress. 
To make one's self beautiful, to dress the hair, to excel in talk, 
to do anything and all things that puff out the character and 
attributes and make them imposing in the eyes of others, is 
not only to magnify one's self-, but to offer the most delicate 
homage at the same time. And it is in this latter intention 
that they are done by lovers ; for the essence of love is kind- 
ness ; and indeed it may be best defined as passionate kindness : 
kindness, so to speak, run mad and become importunate and 
violent. Vanity in a merely personal sense exists no longer. 
The lover takes a perilous pleasure in privately displaying his 
weak points and having them, one after another, accepted and 
condoned. He wishes to be assured that he is not loved for 
this or that good quality, but for himself, or something as 
like himself as he can contrive to set forward. For, although 
it may have been a very difficult thing to paint the marriage 
of Cana, or write the fourth act of Antony and Cleopatra, 
there is a more difificult piece of art before every one in this 
world who cares to set about explaining his own character to 
others. Words and acts are easily wrenched from their true 
significance ; and they are all the language we have to come 
and go upon. A pitiful job we make of it, as a rule. For better 
or worse, people mistake our meaning and take our emotions 
at a wrong valuation. And generally we rest pretty content 
with our failures ; we are content to be misapprehended by 



372 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

cackling flirts ; but when once a man is moonstruck with this 
affection of love, he makes it a point of honour to clear such 
dubieties away. He cannot have the Best of her Sex misled 
upon a point of this importance ; and his pride revolts at being 
loved in a mistake. 

He discovers a great reluctance to return on former periods 
of his life. To all that has not been shared with her, rights 
and duties, bygone fortunes and dispositions, he can look back 
only by a difficult and repugnant effort of the will. That he 
should have wasted some years in ignorance of what alone was 
really important, that he may have entertained the thought 
of other women with any show of complacency, is a burthen 
almost too heavy for his self-respect. But it is the thought of 
another past that rankles in his spirit like a poisoned wound. 
That he himself made a fashion of being alive in the bald, 
beggarly days before a certain. meeting, is deplorable enough 
in all good conscience. But that She should have permitted 
herself the same liberty seems inconsistent with a Divine 
providence. 

A great many people run down jealousy, on the score that 
it is an artificial feeling, as well as practically inconvenient. 
This is scarcely fair ; for the feeling on which it merely at- 
tends, like an, ill-humoured courtier, is itself artificial in exactly 
the same sense and to the same degree. I suppose what is 
meant by that objection is that jealousy has not always been a 
character of man ; formed no part of that very modest kit of 
sentiments with which he is supposed to have begun the world ; 
but waited to make its appearance in better days and among 
richer natures. And this is equally true of love, and friendship, 
and love of country, and delight in what they call the beauties 
of nature, and most other things worth having. Love, in par- 
ticular, will not endure any historical scrutiny : to all who have 
fallen across it, it is. one of the most incontestable facts in the 
world ; but if you begin to ask what it was in other periods 
and countries, in Greece for instance, the strangest doubts be- 
gin to spring up, and everything seems so vague and changing 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 373 

that a dream is logical in comparison. Jealousy, at any rate, 
is one of the consequences of love ; you may like it or not, at 
pleasure ; but there it is. 

It is not exactly jealousy, however, that we feel when we 
reflect on the past of those we love. A bundle of letters found 
after years of happy union creates no sense of insecurity in the 
present ; and yet it will pain a man sharply. The two people 
entertain no vulgar doubt of each other : but this preexistence 
of both occurs to the mind as something indelicate. To be 
altogether right, they should have had twin birth together, at 
the same moment with the feeling that unites them. Then 
indeed it w^ould be simple and perfect and without reserve or 
afterthought. Then they would understand each other with a 
fulness impossible otherwise. There would be no barrier be- 
tween them of associations that cannot be imparted. They 
would be led into none of those comparisons that send the 
blood back to the heart. And they would know that there had 
been no time lost, and they had been together as much as 
was possible. For besides terror for the separation that must 
follow some time or other in the future, men feel anger, and 
something like remorse, when they think of that other separa- 
tion which endured until they met. Some one has written that 
love makes people believe in immortality, because there seems 
not to be room- enough in life for so great a tenderness, and 
it is inconceivable that the most masterful of our emotions 
should have no more than the spare moments of a few years. 
Indeed, it seems strange ; but if we call to mind analogies, 
we can hardly regard it as impossible. 

" The blind bow-boy," who smiles upon us from the end of 
terraces in old Dutch gardens, laughingly hails his bird-bolts 
among a fleeting generation. But for as fast as ever he shoots, 
the game dissolves and disappears into eternity from under his 
falling arrows ; this one is gone ere he is struck ; the other 
has but time to make one gesture and give one passionate cry; 
and they are all the things of a moment. When the generation 
is gone, when the play is over, when the thirty years' panorama 



374 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

has been withdrawn in tatters from the stage of the world, we 
may ask what has become of these great, weighty, and undying 
loves, and the sweethearts who despised mortal conditions in 
a fine credulity ; and they can only show us a few songs in a 
bygone taste, a few^ actions worth remembering, and a fe^w 
children who have retained some happy stamp from the dis- 
position of their parents. 



THE LANTERN-BEARERS 1 

Scribner's Magazine^ February, 1888 
I 

These boys congregated every autumn about a certain east- 
erly fisher-village, where they tasted in a high degree the glory 
of existence. The place was created seemingly on purpose for 
the diversion of young gentlemen. A street or two of houses, 
mostly red and many of them tiled ; a number of fine trees 
clustered about the manse and the kirkyard, and turning the 
chief street into a shady alley ; many little gardens more than 
usually bright with flowers ; nets a-drying, and fisher-wives 
scolding in the backward parts ; a smell of fish, a genial smell 
of seaweed ; whiffs of blowing sand at the street-corners ; shops 
with golf -balls and bottled lollipops ; another shop with penny 
pickwicks (that remarkable cigar) and the London J oiivnal, dear 
to me for its startling pictures, and a few novels, dear for their 
suggestive names : such, as well as memory serves me, were 
the ingredients of the town. These, you are to conceive posted 
on a spit between two sandy bays, and sparsely flanked with 
villas — enough for the boys to lodge in with their subsidiary "^^ 
parents, not enough (not yet enough) to cocknify the scene : 
a haven in the rocks in front : in front of that, a file of gray 
islets : to the left, endless links and sand wreaths, a wilderness 
of hiding-holes, alive with popping rabbits and soaring gulls : 
to the right, a range of seaward crags, one rugged brow beyond 

1 Yxoxu. Across the Plains. Charles Scribner's Sons. Reprinted by permission. 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 375 

another ; the ruins of a mighty and ancient fortress on the 
brink, of one ; coves between — now charmed into sunshine 
quiet, now whisthng with wind and clamorous with bursting 
surges ; the dens and sheltered hollows redolent of thyme and 
southernwood, the air at the cliff's edge brisk and clean and 
pungent of the sea — in front of all, the Bass Rock, tilted sea- 
ward like a doubtful bather, the surf ringing it with white, the 
' solan-geese hanging round its summit like a great and gUtter- 
ing smoke. This choice piece of seaboard was sacred, besides, 
to the wrecker; and the Bass, in the eye of fancy, still flew 
the colours of King James ; and in the ear of fancy the arches 
of Tantallon still rang with horseshoe iron, and echoed to the 
commands of Bell-the-Cat. 

There was nothing to mar your days, if you were a boy sum- 
mering in that part, but the embarrassment of pleasure. You 
might golf if you wanted ; but I seem to have been better 
employed. You might secrete yourself in the Lady's Walk, a 
certain sunless dingle of elders, all mossed over by the damp 
as green as grass, and dotted here and there by the streamside 
with roofless walls, the cold homes of anchorites. To fit them- 
selves for life, and with a special eye to acquire the art of 
smoking, it was even common for the boys to harbour there ; 
and you might have seen a single penny pickwick, honestly 
shared in lengths with a blunt knife, bestrew the glen with 
these apprentices. Again, you might join our fishing parties, 
where we sat perched as thick as solan-geese, a covey of little 
anglers, boy and girl, angling over each other's heads, to the 
much entanglement of fines and loss of podleys and consequent 
shrill recrimination — shrill as the geese themselves. Indeed, 
had that been all, you might have done this often ; but though 
fishing be a fine pastime, the podley is scarce to be regarded 
as a dainty for the table ; and it was a point of honour that a 
boy should eat all that he had taken. Or again, you might 
climb the Law, where the whale's jawbone stood landmark in 
the buzzing wind, and behold the face of many counties, and 
the smoke and spires of many towns, and the sails of distant 



376 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

ships. You might bathe, now in the flaws of fine weather, 
that we pathetically call our summer, now in a gale of wind, 
with the sand scourging your bare hide, your clothes thrashing 
abroad from underneath their guardian stone, the froth of the 
great breakers casting you headlong ere it had drowned your 
knees. Or you might explore the tidal rocks, above all in 
the ebb of springs, when the very roots of the hills were for 
the nonce discovered ; following my leader from one group 
to another, groping in slippery tangle for the wreck of ships, 
wading in pools after the abominable creatures of the sea, and 
ever with an eye cast backward on the march of the tide and 
the menaced line of your retreat. And then you might go 
Crusoeing, a word that covers all extempore eating in the open 
air : digging perhaps a house under the margin of the links, 
kindling a fire of the sea-ware, and cooking apples there — if 
they were truly apples, for I sometimes suppose the merchant 
must have played us off with some inferior and quite local 
fruit, capable of resolving, in the neighbourhood of fire, into 
mere sand and smoke and iodine ; or perhaps pushing to 
Tantallon, you might lunch on sandwiches and visions in the 
grassy court, while the wind hummed in the crumbling turrets ; 
or clambering along the coast, eat geans (the worst, I must 
suppose, in Christendom) from an adventurous gean tree 
that had taken root under a cliff, where it was shaken with 
an ague of east wind, and silvered after gales with salt, and 
grew so foreign among its bleak surroundings that to eat of 
its produce was an adventure in itself. 

There are mingled some dismal memories with *so many 
that were joyous. Of the fisher-wife, for instance, who had 
cut her throat at Canty Bay ; and of how I ran with the other 
children to the top of the Quadrant, and beheld a posse of 
silent people escorting a cart, and on the cart, bound in a 
chair, her throat bandaged, and the bandage all bloody — 
horror ! — the fisher-wife herself, who continued thenceforth 
to hag-ride my thoughts, and even to-day (as I recall the 
scene) darkens daylight. She was lodged in the little old jail 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 377 

in the chief street ; but whether or no she died there, with a 
wise terror of the worst, I never inquired. She had been tip- 
phng ; it was but a dingy tragedy ; and it seems strange and 
hard that, after all these years, the poor crazy sinner should 
be still pilloried on her cart in the scrap-book of my memory. 
Nor shall I readily forget a certain house in the Quadrant 
where a visitor died, and a dark old woman continued to dwell 
alone with the dead body ; nor how this old woman conceived 
a hatred to myself and one of my cousins, and in the dread 
hour of the dusk, as we were clambering on the garden-walls, 
opened a window in that house of mortality and cursed us in 
a shrill voice and with a marrowy choice of language. It was 
a pair of very colourless urchins that fled down the lane from 
this remarkable experience ! But I recall with a more doubtful 
sentiment, compounded out of fear and exultation, the coil of 
equinoctial tempests ; trumpeting squalls, scouring flaws of 
rain ; the boats with their reefed lugsails scudding for the har- 
bour mouth, where danger lay, for it was hard to make when 
the wind had any east in it ; the wives clustered with blowing 
shawls at the pier-head, where (if fate was against them) they 
might see boat and husband and sons — their whole wealth 
and their whole family — engulfed under their eyes ; and 
(what I saw but once) a troop of neighbours forcing such an 
unfortunate homeward, and she squalling and battling in their 
midst, a figure scarcely human, a tragic Maenad. 

These are things that I recall with interest ; but what my 
memory dwells upon the most, I have been all this while with- 
holding. It was a sport peculiar to the place, and indeed to 
a week or so of our two months' holiday there. Maybe it still 
flourishes in its native spot ; for boys and their pastimes are 
swayed by periodic forces inscrutable to man ; so that tops and 
marbles reappear in their due season, regular like the sun and 
moon ; and the harmless art of knucklebones has seen the fall 
of the Roman empire and the rise of the United States. It 
may still flourish in its native spot, but nowhere else, I am 
persuaded ; for I tried myself to introduce it on Tweedside, 



378 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

and was defeated lamentably ; its charm being quite local, like 
a country wine that cannot be exported. 

The idle manner of it was this : — 

Toward the end of September, when school-time was draw- 
ing near and the nights were already black, we would begin 
to sally from our respective villas, each equipped wdth a tin 
bull's-eye lantern. The thing was so well known that it had 
worn a rut in the commerce of Great Britain ; and the grocers, 
about the due time, began to garnish their windows with our 
particular brand of luminary. We wore them buckled to the 
waist upon a cricket belt, and over them, such was the rigour 
of the game, a buttoned top-coat. They smelled noisomely 
of blistered tin ; they never burned aright, though they would 
always burn our fingers ; their use was naught ; the pleasure 
of them merely fanciful ; and yet a boy with a bull's-eye under 
his top-coat asked for nothing more. The fishermen used lan- 
terns about their boats, and it was from them, I suppose, that 
we had got the hint; but theirs were not bull's-eyes, nor did 
we ever play at being fishermen. The police carried them at 
their belts, and we had plainly copied them in that ; yet we 
did not pretend to be policemen. Burglars, indeed, we may 
have had some haunting thoughts of ; and we had certainly an 
eye to past ages when lanterns were more common, and to 
certain story-books in which we had found them to figure very 
largely. But take it for all in all, the pleasure of the thing 
was substantive ; and to be a boy with a bull's-eye under his 
top-coat was good enough for us. 

When two of these asses met, there would be an anxious 
" Have you got your lantern .? " and a gratified '' Yes ! " That 
was the shibboleth, and very needful too ; for, as it was the 
rule to keep our glory contained, none could recognize a 
lantern-bearer, unless (like the pole-cat) by the smell. Four 
or five would sometimes climb into the belly of a ten-man 
lugger, with nothing but the thwarts above them — for the 
cabin was usually locked, or choose out some hollow of the 
links where the wind might whistle overhead. There the coats 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 379 

would be unbuttoned and the bull's-eyes discovered ; and in 
the chequering glimmer, under the huge windy hall of the 
night, and cheered by a rich steam of toasting tinware, these 
fortunate young gentlemen would crouch together in the cold 
sand of the links or on the scaly bilges of the fishing-boat, and 
delight themselves with inappropriate talk. Woe is me that I 
may not give some specimens — some of their foresights of 
life, or deep inquiries into the rudiments of man and nature, 
these were so fiery and so innocent, they were so richly silly, 
so romantically young. But the talk, at any rate, was but a 
condiment ; and these gatherings themselves only accidents in 
the career of the lantern-bearer. The essence of this bliss was 
to walk by yourself in the black night ; the slide shut, the top- 
coat buttoned ; not a ray escaping, whether to conduct your 
footsteps or to make your glory public : a mere pillar of 
darkness in the dark ; and all the while, deep down in the 
privacy of your fool's heart, to know you had a bull's-eye at 
your belt, and to exult and sing over the knowledge. 

II 

It is said that a poet has died young in the breast of the 
most stolid. It may be contended, rather, that this (somewhat 
minor) bard in almost every case survives, and is the spice of 
life to his possessor. Justice is not done to the versatility and 
unplumbed childishness of man's imagination. His life from 
without may seem but a rude mound of mud ; there will be 
some golden chamber at the heart of it, in which he dwells 
delighted ; and for as dark as his pathway seems to the 
observer, he will have some kind of a bull's-eye at his belt. 

It would be hard to pick out a career more cheerless than 
that of Dancer, the miser, as he figures in the Old Bailey 
Reports, a prey to the most sordid persecutions, the butt of 
his neighbourhood, betrayed by his hired man, his house be- 
leagured by the impish school-boy, and he himself grinding 
and fuming and impotently fleeing to the law against these 
pin-pricks. You marvel at first that any one should willingly 



38o THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

prolong a life so destitute of charm and dignity ; and then you 
call to memory that had he chosen, had he ceased to be a 
miser, he could have been freed at once from these trials, and 
might have built himself a castle and gone escorted by a squad- 
ron. For the love of more recondite joys, which we cannot 
estimate, which, it may be, we should envy, the man had will- 
ingly foregone both comfort and consideration, "His mind to 
him a kingdom was"; and sure enough, digging into that 

^ mind, which seems at first a dust-heap, we unearth some price- 
less jewels. For Dancer must have had the love of power and 
the disdain of using it, a noble character in itself ; disdain of 
many pleasures, a chief part of what is commonly called wis- 
dom ; disdain of the inevitable end, that finest trait of man- 
kind ; scorn of men's opinions, another element of virtue ; and 
at the back of all, a conscience just like yours and mine, whin- 
ing like a cur, swindling like a thimble-rigger, but still pointing 
(there or thereabout) to some conventional standard. Here 
were a cabinet portrait to which Hawthorne perhaps had done 
justice ; and yet not Hawthorne either, for he was mildly 
minded, and it lay not in him to create for us that throb of 
the miser's pulse, his fretful energy of gusto, his vast arms of 
ambition clutching in he knows not what : insatiable, insane, 
, a god with a muck-rake. Thus, at least, looking in the bosom 
of the miser, consideration detects the poet in the full tide of 
life, with more, indeed, of the poetic fire than usually goes to 
epics ; and tracing that mean man about his cold hearth, and 

•^ to and fro in his discomfortable house, spies within him a blaz- 
ing bonfire of delight. And so with others, who do not live 
by bread alone, but by some cherished and perhaps fantastic 
pleasure ; who are meat salesmen to the external eye, and possi- 
bly to themselves are Shakespeares, Napoleons, or Beethovens ; 
who have not one virtue to rub against another in the field of 
, active life, and yet perhaps, in the life of contemplation, sit 
with the saints. We see them on the street, and we can count 
their buttons ; but heaven knows in what they pride them- 
selves ! heaven knows where they have set their treasure ! 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 381 

There is one fable that touches very near the quick of hfe : 
the fable of the monk who passed into the woods, heard a bird 
break into song, hearkened for a trill or two, and found him- 
self on his return a stranger at his convent gates ; for he had 
been absent fifty years, and of all his comrades there survived 
but one to recognise him. It is not only in the woods that 
this enchanter carols, though perhaps he is native there. He 
sings in the most doleful places. The miser hears him and 
chuckles, and the days are moments. With no more apparatus 
than an ill-smelling lantern I have evoked him on the naked 
links. All life that is not merely mechanical is spun out of 
two strands : seeking for that bird and hearing him. And it is 
just this that makes life so hard to value, and the delight of 
each so incommunicable. And just a knowledge of this, and 
a remembrance of those fortunate hours in which the bird has 
sung to us, that fills us with such wonder when we turn the 
pages of the realist. There, to be sure, we find a picture of 
life in so far as it consists of mud and of old iron, cheap de- 
sires and cheap fears, that which we are ashamed to remember 
and that which we are careless whether we forget ; but of the 
note of that time-devouring nightingale we hear no news. 

The case of these writers of romance is most obscure. They 
have been boys and youths ; they have lingered outside the 
window of the beloved, who was then most probably writing to 
some one else ; they have sat before a sheet of paper, and felt 
themselves mere continents of congested poetry, not one line 
of which would flow ; they have walked alone in the woods, 
they have walked in cities under the countless lamps ; they 
have been to sea, they have hated, they have feared, they have 
longed to knife a man, and maybe done it ; the wild taste of 
life has stung their palate. Or, if you deny them all the rest, 
one pleasure at least they have tasted to the full — their books 
are there to prove it — the keen pleasure of successful literary 
composition. And yet they fill the globe with volumes, whose 
cleverness inspires me with despairing admiration, and whose 
consistent falsity to all I care to call existence, with despairing 



382 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

wrath. If I had no better hope than to continue to revolve 
among the dreary and petty businesses, and to be moved by 
the paltry hopes and fears with which they surround and ani- 
mate their heroes, I declare I would die now. But there has 
never an hour of mine gone quite so dully yet ; if it were spent 
waiting at a railway junction, I would have some scattering 
thoughts, I could count some grains of memory, compared to 
which the whole of one of these romances seems but dross. 

These writers would retort (if I take them properly) that 
this was very true ; that it was the same with themselves and 
other persons of (what they call) the artistic temperament ; 
that in this we were exceptional, and should apparently be 
ashamed of ourselves ; but that our works must deal exclu- 
sively with (what they call) the average man, who was a pro- 
digious dull fellow, and quite dead to all but the paltriest 
considerations. I accept the issue. We can only know others 
by ourselves. The artistic temperament (a plague on the ex- 
pression !) does not make us different from our fellow-men, 
or it would make us incapable of writing novels ; and the 
average man (a murrain on the word !) is just like you and 
me, or he would not be average. It was Whitman who 
stamped a kind of Birmingham sacredness upon the latter 
phrase ; but Whitman knew very well, and showed very nobly, 
that the average man w^as full of joys and full of a poetry of 
his own. And this harping on life's dulness and man's mean- 
ness is a loud profession of incompetence ; it is one of two 
things : the cry of the blind eye, / cannot sec, or the complaint 
of the dumb tongue, / cannot titter. To draw a life without 
delights is to prove I have not realized it. To picture a man 
without some sort of poetry — well, it goes near to prove my 
case, for it shows an author may have little enough. To see 
Dancer only as a dirty, old, small-minded, impotently fuming 
man, in a dirty house, besieged by Harrow boys, and probably 
beset by small attorneys, is to show myself as keen an observer 
as . . . the Harrow boys. But these young gentlemen (with a 
more becoming modesty) were content to pluck Dancer by the 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 383 

coat-tails ; they did not suppose they had surprised his secret 
or could put him living in a book : and it is there my error 
would have lain. Or say that in the same romance — I con- 
tinue to call these books romances, in the hope of giving pain 
— say that in the same romance, which now begins really to 
take shape, I should leave to speak of Dancer, and follow 
instead the Harrow boys ; and say that I came on some such 
business as that of my lantern-bearers on the links ; and de- 
scribed the boys as very cold, spat upon by flurries of rain, 
and drearily surrounded, all of which they were ; and their 
talk as silly and indecent, which it certainly was. I might 
upon these lines, and had I Zola's genius, turn out, in a page 
or so, a gem of literary art, render the lantern-light with 
the touches of a master, and lay on the indecency with the 
ungrudging hand of love ; and when all was done, what a tri- 
umph would my picture be of shallowness and dulness ! how 
it would have missed the point ! how it would have belied the 
boys ! To the ear of the stenographer, the talk is merely silly 
and indecent ; but ask the boys themselves, and they are dis- 
cussing (as it is highly proper they should) the possibilities of 
existence. To the eye of the observer they are wet and cold 
and drearily surrounded ; but ask themselves, and they are in 
the heaven of a recondite pleasure, the ground of which is an 
ill-smelling lantern. 

Ill 

For, to repeat, the ground of a man's joy is often hard to 
hit. It may hinge at times upon a mere accessory, like the 
lantern ; it may reside, like Dancer's, in the mysterious inwards 
of psychology. It may consist with perpetual failure, and find 
exercise in the continued chase. It has so little bond with ex- 
ternals (such as the observer scribbles in his note-book) that it 
may even touch them not ; and the man's true life, for which 
he consents to live, ^ie altogether in the field of fancy. The 
clergyman, in his spare hours, may be winning battles, the 
farmer sailing ships, the banker reaping triumph in the arts : 



384 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

all leading another life, plying another trade from that they 

chose ; like the poet's housebuilder, who, after all is cased 

in stone, 

By his fireside, as impotent fancy prompts, 
Rebuilds it to his liking. 

In such a case the poetry runs underground. The observer 
(poor soul, with his documents !) is all abroad. For to look at 
the man is but to court deception. We shall see the trunk 
from which he draws his nourishment ; but he himself is above 
and abroad in the green dome of foliage, hummed through by 
winds and nested in by nightingales. And the true realisrn 
were that of the poets, to climb up after him like a squirrel, 
and catch some glimpse of the heaven for which he lives. 
And the true realism, always and everywhere, is that of the 
poets : to find out where joy resides and give it a voice far 
beyond singing. - 

For to miss the joy is to miss all. In the joy of the actors 
lies the sense of any action. That is the explanation, that the 
excuse. To one who has not the secret of the lanterns, the 
scene upon the links is meaningless. And hence the haunting 
and truly spectral unreality of realistic books. Hence, when 
we read the English realists, the incredulous w^onder with 
which we observe the hero's constancy under the submerging 
tide of dulness, and how he bears up with his jibbing sweet- 
heart, and endures the chatter of idiot girls, and stands by his 
whole unfeatured wilderness of an existence, instead of seek- 
ing relief in drink or foreign travel. Hence, in the French, 
in that meat-market of middle-aged sensuality, the disgusted 
surprise with which we see the hero drift sidelong, and prac- 
tically quite untempted, into every description of misconduct 
and dishonour. In each, we miss the personal poetry, the 
enchanted atmosphere, that rainbow work of fancy that clothes 
what is naked and seems to ennoble what is base ; in each, 
life falls dead like dough, instead of soaring away like a bal- 
loon into the colours of the sunset ; each is true, each incon- 
ceivable ; for no man lives in the external truth, among salts 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 385 

and acids, but in the warm, phantasmagoric chamber of his 
brain, with the painted windows and the storied walls. 

Of this falsity we have had a recent example from a man 
who knows far better — Tolstoi's Powers of Darkness. Here 
is a piece full of force and truth, yet quite untrue. For before 
Mikita was led into so dire a situation he was tempted, and 
temptations are beautiful at least in part ; and a work which 
dwells on the ugliness of crime and gives no hint of any love- 
liness in the temptation, sins against the modesty of life, and 
even when a Tolstoi writes it, sinks to melodrama. The peas- 
ants are not understood ; they saw their life in fairer colours ; 
even the deaf girl was clothed in poetry for Mikita, or he had 
never fallen. And so, once again, even an Old Bailey melo- 
drama, without some brightness of poetry and lustre of exis- 
tence, falls into the inconceivable and ranks with fairy tales. 

IV 

In nobler books we are moved with something like the 
emotions of life ; and this emotion is very variously provoked. 
We are so moved when Levine labours in the field, when 
Andre sinks beyond emotion, when Richard Feverel and Lucy 
Desborough meet beside the river, when Antony^ " not 
cowardly, puts off his helmet," when Kent has infinite pity on 
the dying Lear, when, in Dostoieffsky's Despised and Rejected, 
the uncomplaining hero drains his cup of suffering and virtue. 
These are notes that please the great heart of man. Not only 
love, and the fields, and the bright face of danger, but sacrifice 
and death and unmerited suffering humbly supported, touch 
in us the vein of the poetic. We love to think of them, we 
long to try them, we are humbly hopeful that we may prove 
heroes also. 

We have heard, perhaps, too much of lesser matters. Here 
is the door, here is the open air. Iticr in antiqtcani silvam. 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 



I. GENERAL WORKS ON THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

The only book treating the whole development of the English essay in 
anything like a detailed way is Hugh Walker's recently published EnglisJi 
Essay and Essayists (The Channels of English Literature, E. P. Button 
& Co., 191 5). Though rather a series of portraits of individual essayists 
than a real history of the genre, Professor Walker's volume contains much 
suggestive commentary, as well as many of the essential facts. Shorter 
general accounts, valuable more for suggestions than for detailed infor- 
mation, are Edmund Gosse's in the eleventh edition of the Encyclopaedia 
Britannica, and J. H. Lobban's in English Essays (The Warwick Library, 
London, 1902). Useful articles on the principal English essayists, accom- 
panied by bibliographies, will be found in the Dictionary of National 
Biography . 

11. MONTAIGNE AND THE BEGINNINGS OF THE 
ESSAY IN ENGLAND 

I. Texts. The texts necessary for the study of the essay in this 
period are, with a few exceptions, easily accessible. French editions of 
Montaigne's Essais abound ; perhaps the best, pending the completion of 
the magnificent Edition Municipale of M. Fortunat Strowski, are those 
of Dezeimeris and Barkhausen (for the Essais of 1580) and of Motheau 
and Jouaust (for the Essais of 1 588 and i 595). Of the English translations, 
Florio's is obtainable in the Tudor Translations (3 vols., 1893) with an 
introduction by George Saintsbury, in the Temple Classics (6 vols., 1897), 
and in Everyman's Library (3 vols.) ; Cotton's (as revised by William and 
W. C. Hazlitt) in Bohn's Popular Library (3 vols., 1913). The student 
interested in Montaigne's sources and models will find in certain chapters 
of Sir Thomas Elyot's Governonr (in Everyman's Library) very good ex- 
amples of sixteenth-century legons morales. Accessible also in Everyman's 
Library are selections from Plutarch's Moralia^ in the early seventeenth- 
century rendering of Philemon Holland. The standard edition of 

387 



588 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Bacon's Essays is that of James Spedding in Vol. VI of The Works of 
Francis Baco/t, collected and edited by Spedding, Ellis, and Heath (new 
edition, London, 1890). The basis of this edition, as of nearly all modern 
reprints, is the third, or 1625, text of the Essays] the editor, however, gives 
in an Appendix the two earlier texts of 1597 and 161 2, thus furnishing all 
the necessary material for a critical study of Bacon's development as an es- 
sayist. The same material, in a somewhat more scholarly and usable form, 
is also accessible in Edward Arber's Harmony of the Essays^ etc. of Fi'ancis 
Bacon (English Reprints, Constable, Westminster, 1895). Of the innumer- 
able other editions of Bacon, that of Mary Augusta Scott (Charles Scribner's 
Sons, 1908) deserves particular mention for its full and helpful explanatory 

notes. Cowley's Essays are reprinted from the folio of 1 668 by A. R. 

Waller in the Cambridge English Classics (Cambridge, 1906). A good 
inexpensive edition is that of Alfred B. Gough {^The Essays and other 

Prose Writings., Oxford Press, 191 5). There are no complete modern 

editions of Temple. "An Essay upon the Ancient and Modern Learning" 
and *' Of Poetry '' are accessible in J. E. Spingarn's C?itical Essays of the 
Seventee?ith Century (Vol. HI, Oxford, 1909); for the others, the reader 
must go to some one of the various collected editions of Temple's Works 

published between his death and the early nineteenth century. Of the 

less prominent or influential essayists of this period, Cornwallis, Robert 
Johnson, Clarendon, Collier, and Buckingham are obtainable only in early 
editions ; Felltham's Resolves can be read in a reprint by Oliphant Smeaton 
(Temple Classics), and Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici., in numerous 
modern editions, the most valuable perhaps being that by W. A. Greenhill 
(The Macmillan Company, 1881), and the least expensive perhaps that in the 

Temple Classics (1896). A good selection of English "characters" is 

given by Henry Morley in Character Writings of the Seventeenth Centuiy 
(The Carisbrooke Library, London, 1891). Of La Bruyere, the best French 
edition is that in the Grands Ecrivains series (ed. G. Servois, Paris, 1865); 
the best Enghsh translation, that of \^an Laun (London, 1885). 

2. Studies. There exists no adeq^uate single account of the early history 
of the English essay. Certain pages in the Cam bridge History of English 
Literature (particularly Vol. IV, chap, xvi, and Vol. VIII, chap, xvi) fur- 
nish a few facts, but for more detailed information one must have recourse 
to special monographs and articles. Only the most notable of these can be 
mentioned here. For all that relates to Montaigne and the origins of the 
essay the authoritative work is M. Pierre Villey's Les Souixes et V evolution 
des Essais de Montaigne (2 vols., Hachette, Paris, 1908). The main results 
of this study, together with much illustrative material, are presented in 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 389 

briefer compass in the same writer's Montaigiie : textes choisis et com- 
7nentes (Plon-Nourrit, Paris, n.d.). Other studies by Villey concern Mon- 
taigne's influence in England. See especially " Montaigne en Angleterre," 
in Revue des deux mondes (191 3), pp. 1 15-150, and " Montaigne a-t-il eu 
quelque influence sur Frangois Bacon," in Revue de la Renaissance, t. XII 
(191 1), 1 21-158, 185-203; t. XIII (1912), 21-46, 61-82 — the latter con- 
taining by far the best exposition of Bacon's development as an essayist 
that has yet appeared. The chapter on Montaigne in A. H. Upham's The 
French Influence in English Literature from the Accession of Elizabeth 
to the Restoration (New York, 1 908), while for the most part superseded 
by Villey's later work, nevertheless deserves to be consulted for its treat- 
ment of Montaigne's influence on Cornwallis, Browne, and other minor 
writers. Other sources of information or ideas on the essay in the seven- 
teenth century are Joseph Texte's " La descendance de Montaigne : Sir 
Thomas Browne" in Etudes de litterature europeenne (Paris, 1898), 
Charles Lamb's " The Genteel Style in Writing " (on Sir William Temple), 
in Last Essays of Elia, and Professor E. C. Baldwin's studies of the de- 
velopment of character-writing (see Publications of the Modern Language 
Association, Vols. XVIII and XIX). 

III. THE PERIODICAL ESSAY OF THE EIGHTEENTH 

CENTURY 

I. Texts. The British Essayists of A. Chalmers (1803, and various 
later editions) contains reprints of the following eighteenth-century peri- 
odicals : Taller, Spectator, Guardian, Rambler, Adventurer, World, 
Connoisseur, Idler, Mirror, Lounger, Observe?', and Looker-on — in a 
word, of nearly all the more important or influential collections. Many 
essays not appearing in these papers may be found in Nathan Drake's 
The Gleaner: a series of Periodical Essays ; selected and arranged from 
scarce or neglected volumes (4 vols., London, 181 1). Of the periodicals 
which preceded the Taller, such as the Athenian Mercury and Defoe's 

Review, there are unfortunately no modern reprints. The best texts of 

the more important essay-papers are to be found, not in the general col- 
lections mentioned above, but in separate editions. The standard edition 
of the Taller — an edition by no means critical, however — is that of 
G. A. Aitken (4 vols., London, 1 898-1 899). The Spectator has been ad- 
mirably edited, with respect to both text and commentary, by G. Gregory 
Smith (8 vols., London, 1 897-1898 ; practically the same work is reprinted 
in four volumes in Everyman's Library). Fielding's essays are accessible 



3.90 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

in his Works (ed. Leslie Stephen, Vol. VI, London, 1882), and a critical 
edition of his Coveiit-Garden Journal has recently been announced by the 
Yale University Press. Goldsmith's Citizen of the World may be read 
in an excellent but inexpensive reprint by Austin Dobson (2 vols., the 
Temple Classics, 1 900). The same series contains also his Bee and other 

Essays. Of the numerous volumes of selections of eighteenth-century 

essays two only need be mentioned, for the excellence of their editing : 
Austin Dobson's Steele : Selections from the Taller^ Spectator and 
Guardian (Oxford, 1885 ; 2d edition, 1896), and Wendell and Greenough's 
Selections f?V7n the Writings of Joseph Addison (Ginn and Company, 
Boston, 1905). 

2. Studies. Historical study of the eighteenth-century periodical essay 
may be said to have begun with Nathan Drake, whose Essays . . . illustra- 
tive of the Taller^ Spectator^ a?id Guardiaji, and Essays . . . illustrative 
of the Rajnbler, Adventurer^ and Idler were published in 1805 and 
1 809-18 10 respectively. Despite their early date, these works are still 
valuable sources of information, particularly of a bibliographical sort, on 
the eighteenth-century periodicals. They need, however, to be supple- 
mented by more recent studies, such as A. Beljame's section on the early 
periodicals in his Le Public et les Homines de lettres en Angleterre au 
dix-huitihne siecle (Paris, 1881), Leslie Stephen's article on Addison in 
the Dictionary of National Biography (1885), G. A. Aitken's account of 
the Taller and Spectator in his Life of Richard Steele (1889; see espe- 
cially Vol. I, pp. 239-258 and 309-321), Lawrence Lewis's The Adve?'- 
tiseme?its of the Spectator (1909; valuable for the understanding it gives 
of some of the material conditions amid which the eighteenth-century essay 
took form), and Harold V. Routh's very suggestive study of Addison and 
Steele in the Cambiidge History of English Lite?-atu?'e (Vol. IX, chap, ii, 
191 3). Readers in search of appreciative comment on the eighteenth- 
century essayists will naturally turn to the lives of Addison by Dr. Johnson 
and Macaulay, to Thackeray's English Humourists of the Eighteenth 
Century., and to Hazlitt's finely discriminating lecture " On the Periodical 
Essayists " in his English Comic Writers. 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 39X 

IV. THE NEW MAGAZINE ESSAY OF THE NINETEENTH 

CENTURY 

1 . Texts. The serious student of the nineteenth-century essay will find 
it indispensable to go directly to the magazines in which the work of most 
of the essayists of this period originally appeared. The greater number of 
these are accessible in any large library. For ordinary purposes, however, 
the more recent collected editions are sufficient and possibly preferable. 
Such are E. V. Lucas's edition of The Works of Charles and Mary La7nb 
(7 vols., Methuen & Co., London, 1 903-1 905), Alfred Ainger's edition of the 
Essays of Elia (Macmillan & Co., London, 1883), The Collected Works of 
William Hazlitt, edited by A. R. Waller and Arnold Glover (13 vols., J. M. 
Dent, London, 1 902-1 906), The Collected Writings ofTho7nasDe Quincey, 
edited by David Masson (14 vols., London, 1889), the Biographical edition 
of Thackeray (13 vols.. Harper & Brothers, New York, 1898- 1899), and 
the Thistle edition of Stevenson (27 vols., Charies Scribner's Sons, New 
York). No complete edition of Leigh Hunt has yet appeared ; a helpful 
guide to his widely scattered writings is Alexander Ireland's List of the 
Writings of Williain Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt, etc. (John Russell Smith, 
London, 1 868) ; and a fairly representative selection of his essays, with a 
good introduction, is obtainable in the Worid's Classics (Oxford Press). 
Other selections from his work are contained in The Indicator and The 
Companion (2 vols., Henry Colburn, London, 1834), and in Men, Women, 
and Books and Table-Talk (both published by Smith, Elder & Co., London). 
Inexpensive reprints of the principal essay collections of the nine- 
teenth century may be had in the old Bohn Library (George Bell & Sons), 
Everyman's Library (E. P. Dutton & Company), the Worid's Classics 
(Oxford Press), and the Temple Classics (E. P. Dutton & Company). 

2. Studies. In addition to the chapters on the essayists of the nine- 
teenth century in Walker's English Essay and Essayists, the reader may 
be referred to Oliver Elton's A Survey of English Literature, 1 780-1 830 
(London, 191 2), and to C. T. Winchester's A Group of English Essayists 
of the Early Nineteenth Century (The Macmillan Company, 1910). Both 
of these works deal with the period during which the new essay was taking 
form, and present more or^less satisfactory studies of Lamb, Hazlitt, Hunt, 
De Quincey, and " Christopher North." So far there has been no serious 
extended treatment of the essay in the middle and later years of the cen- 
tury. A full list of the critical articles which the essayists of this period 

have inspired would greatly exceed the limits of this note. The following 
are perhaps the most helpful and suggestive: Hazlitt's papers on Lamb 



392 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

and Hunt in The Spirit of the Age^ Walter Pater's essay on Lamb in 
Appreciations^ W. E. Henley's study of Hazlitt (printed as an introduction 
to the Waller-Glover edition), Sir Walter Raleigh's Robert Louis Stevenson 
(1895), and Leslie Stephen's article on the same writer in his Studies of a 
Biographer (VoX. IV, 1902). The lives of Lamb, Hazlitt, De Quincey, and 
Thackeray in the English Men of Letters series should also be consulted, 
as should Cosmo Monkhouse's Leigh Hunt (Great Writers, 1893) and 
Graham Balfour's Life of Robert Louis Stevenso7i (2 vols., 1901). In the 
Letters of Lamb and Stevenson and in Hunt's Autobiogj-aphy may be 
found excellent commentary on the work of those writers as essayists. 



NOTES 

MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE 

With the exception of '' The Author to the Reader," which is given in 
Florio's version, the texts of Montaigne in the present collection are based 
upon Charles Cotton's translation of 1685 as revised successively by William 
Hazlitt and William Carew Hazlitt (Reeves and Turner, London, 1902). 
Whatever advantages there might have been from a historical point of view 
in reproducing either Florio's rendering or the original text of Cotton are 
more than offset by the superior accuracy and intelligibility of the Hazlitt 
revision. 

The Author to the Reader 

Montaigne's preface to the first edition of his Essais (1580). 

Page i. 

I . those nations : the savages of the New World, who were thought by 
many of Montaigne's contemporaries to possess virtues sadly lacking in 
civilized Europeans. Montaigne himself seems to have shared this view, 
at least in part, and in general manifested a keen interest in the newly dis- 
covered barbarians. See his essays entitled " Of Custom," " Of Cannibals," 
and " Of Coaches," and, on the whole subject of the attitude of sixteenth- 
century Frenchmen to the American natives, the very interesting recent 
work of Gilbert Chinard, V Exotisjne americain dans la litteratu7-e fran- 
qaise au XVE siecle (Paris, 191 1). 

Of Sorrow 

The essay '' De la tristesse " first appeared as Chapter II of Book I in 
the edition of 1580. The date of its composition is fixed by Villey {Les 
Sources et P evolution des Essais de Montaigne^ I, 337) at about 1572 ; it 
belongs, therefore, to the earliest period of Montaigne's literary career, 
of which it is thoroughly typical. 

Page 2. 

I . the Stoics : a school of ancient philosophers, founded by Zeno about 
308 B.C. In general, they taught that the highest virtue consists in firmness, 

393 



394 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

resolution, and an insensibility to joy and sorrow. At the time of the 
composition of this essay Montaigne's own thinking was largely colored 
by Stoic doctrines. 

2. Psammitichus : or Psammenitus ; the story is told by Herodotus 
(iii, 14), but Montaigne may have read it in one of the numerous contem- 
porary collections of moral " examples." 

Page 3. 

3. the ancient painter: this "example," like the last, Montaigne prob- 
ably borrowed from some sixteenth-century compilation. Ancient authorities 
for the story were Cicero {Orator xxii) and Pliny (Histo7'ia N^aturalis 
XXXV, 10). 

4. the sacrifice of Iphigenia : an allusion to the famous Greek legend 
in which Agamemnon, at the suggestion of the Delphic oracle, prepared to 
offer his daughter as a sacrifice to appease the wrath of Artemis. 

5. Diriguisse mails: Ovid, Metamoi'phoses vi, 303: ''petrified by her 
misfortunes." 

6. Et via vix tandem voci laxata dolore est : Virgil, ALneid xi, 151: 
" and at length and with difficulty a way is opened by grief for speech." 

Page 4. 

7. Chi puo dir com' egli arde, "k in picciol fuoco : Petrarch, Sonetii I, 

cxviii : 

He that can say how he doth fry, 

In petty-gentle flames doth lie. — Florio's translation. 

8. Innamoratos : Florio translates simply " lovers." 

9. Misero quod omneis, etc. : Catullus 51, 5-1 2 : '' And this steals all my 
senses from me. For as soon as I see thee, Lesbia, I have not a word that 
I can say, for very frenzy. My tongue is numbed ; a fine flame flows in 
and through my limbs ; my ears, too, are filled with ringing, and my eyes 
are mantled in double darkness." 

10. Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent: Seneca, HippolyUis^ 1. 607: 
" Light griefs speak ; heavy sorrows remain silent." 

Page 5. 

11. Ut me conspexit venientem, etc. : Virgil, yEnezd iii, 306: "As she 
saw me approaching and beheld with surprise the Trojan arms about 
me, frightened with so great a marvel, she fainted at the very sight : 
the warmth of life forsook her limbs, she sank down, and after a long 
time with difficulty she spoke." 

1 2. the examples of the Roman lady, etc. : it is unnecessary to indi- 
cate for these anecdotes their sources in ancient literature, for Montaigne 



NOTES 395 

probably took them already collected from one of the most popular com- 
pilations of the sixteenth century, the Ojjiciiia of Ravisius Textor. 

13. Pope Leo X : the pontificate of Leo X extended from 15 13 to 1521. 
The source of the "example" was probably Guicciardini's (1483-1540) 
Storia d'' Italia^ a history much admired and quoted by Montaigne. 

Of Repentance 

This essay was first published, under the title of " Du repentir," in the 
Essais of 1588, where it formed Chapter II of Book III. In composition 
it must have been later than 1580, though its exact date is impossible to 
determine. It has all the distinguishing qualities of the essays of Montaigne's 
last period. See the Introduction to the present volume, pp. xv-xvi. 

Page 6. 

1. Demades : quoted in Plutarch's Life of Detnosthenes. 

Page 8. 

2. Malice sucks up, etc. : a translation of Seneca, Epistolcs 81. 

Page 9. 

3. Quae fuerant vitia, mores sunt : Seneca, Epistolcs 39 : " What were 
formerly vices are now fashions." 

4. Tuo tibi judicio est utendum, etc. : see Cicero, De Nattira Deorutn 
iii, 35: "You must use your own judgment . . . The weight of the very 
conscience of vice and virtues is heavy : take that away, and all is down " 
(Florio's translation). 

Page id. 

5. Quae mens est hodie, etc.: Horace, Odes iv, 10, 7: "Why had I 
not the same inclination, when I was young, that I have to-day, or why, 
when I am so disposed, does not my bloom return to me t " 

6. Bias : an early Greek philosopher (fi. sixth century B.C.), one of the 
" Seven Sages." The apothegm quoted by Montaigne is recorded by 
Plutarch in his Banquet of the Seven Sages. 

7. Julius Drusus : a Roman politician (d. cir. 109 B.C.); his real name 
was Marcus Livius Drusus. 

8. Agesilaus : King of Sparta from 399 to 361 B.C. For this anecdote 
see Plutarch, Life of Agesilaus. 

Page i i . 

9. Gascony . . . Guienne : Gascony and Guienne formed in the sixteenth 
century a single " government." 

10. private men, says Aristotle : in his Nicomacheaji Ethics x, 7. 



396 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 12. 

11. Tamerlane: a corruption of Timur-Leng (" Timur the Lame"), the 
name of a Tartar monarch who between about 1370 and 1405 conquered 
Persia, central Asia, and a large part of India, and made preparations for 
an invasion of China. The story of his deeds, told and retold in numerous 
popular histories, made a profound impression on the imagination of 
western Europe in the sixteenth century. In England, a year before this 
essay was published, Marlowe devoted to Tamerlane's career the first of 
his great tragedies. See also Bacon's essay " Of Envy," above, p. 36. 

12. Erasmus : the great representative of humanism in northern Europe, 
born at Rotterdam probably in 1466, died at Basel in 1 536. In the sixteenth 
century Erasmus's reputation rested to a very large extent upon his Adagia 
(1600), a collection of " sentences " and '' apothegms " from ancient writers ; 
it is to the fame of this work that Montaigne's remark applies. 

13. Sic ubi, desuetae silvis, in carcere clausae, etc. : Lucan, Pharsalia^ 
iv, 237: "So when wild beasts, grown unaccustomed to the woods and 
shut up in cages, grow tame and lay aside their threatening look, and learn 
to put up with man, if but a drop of blood comes to their parched mouths, 
their ravenous fury returns and their throats swell, reminded by the taste 
of blood ; their fury rages and scarcely stops short of the trembling keeper." 

Page 14. 

1 4. Armaignac : a district in southeastern Gascony not far distant from 
Montaigne's estates. 

Page 15. 

15. the Pythagorean sect: the followers of Pythagoras (cir. 582-cir. 
500 B.C.), a Greek philosopher. 

Page 16. 

16. Cato : Marcus Porcius Cato, commonly known as "The Censor," a 
Roman statesman and writer (234-149 B.C.). Montaigne's allusion refers 
to the severity of morals for which he was noted. 

Page 17. 

17. Phocion : an Athenian statesman and general (cir. 402-317 B.C.). 
The anecdote which Montaigne tells of him he probably found in Plutarch's 
collection of apothegms. 

Page 18. 

1 8. He, who said of old : Sophocles. The " sentence " is quoted from 
Cicero, De Sejiectiite 1 4. 



NOTES 397 

19. Nee tarn aversa, etc. : Quintilian, Institutio oi'atoria^ v, 12: " Nor 
will Providence ever be seen so hostile to her own work that impotence 
should be included among the best things." 

Page 19. 

20. Antisthenes : a Greek philosopher (cir. 444-after 371 B.C.). The 
saying quoted by Montaigne is to be found in Diogenes Laertius, Life 
of Antisthenes. 

SIR FRANCIS BACON 

The text of Bacon is that of The Works of Fi'ancis Bacon^ edited by 
Spedding, Ellis, and Heath. It has been collated throughout, however, 
with the original text of the same versions as printed by Arber in his 
Harmony of the Essays (1895). 

Of Studies 

As a means of illustrating the development of Bacon's methods of com- 
position, this essay is given both in the original version of i 597 and in the 
final revision of 1625. In the former it occupied first place and bore the 
title " Of Study " ; in the latter it was printed as No. 50. 

Page 23. 

1 . Abeunt studia in mores : Ovid, Heroides^ xv, 83 : " Studies have an 
influence and operation upon the manners of those that are conversant in 
them" (Bacon's paraphrase in The Adva7tceme7it of Lear^iing, Bk. I). 

Page 24. 

2. the schoolmen : the philosophers of the medieval universities, a 
prominent feature of whose method was a reliance on fine distinctions be- 
tween terms. Bacon was one of the leaders of the general revolt against 
their philosophy which took place at the end of the sixteenth century. 

3. cymini sectores : Hterally dividers of cumin-seed ; hair-splitters. 

Of Empire 

The essay '' Of Empire " appeared first in a manuscript version of the 
Essays written between 1607 and 161 2; it was first printed (as No. 9) in 
the edition of 1612; it was reprinted, with numerous additions, as No. 19 
in the edition of 1625. It is given here in the versions of 161 2 and 1625. 
A comparison of the two texts will enable the reader to verify the state- 
ments made in the Introduction regarding the evolution of Bacon's con- 
ception and practice of the essay. 

I. That the king's heart is inscrutable : see Proverbs xxv, 3. 



398 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 25. 

2. Alexander the Great and . . . Charles- the Fifth : Alexander (356- 
323 B.C.) was disappointed at being turned back from India by the refusal 
of his soldiers to go on. Charles the Fifth (i 500-1558), Emperor of the 
Holy Roman Empire, abdicated his crown in favor of his son Philip (1556) 
and spent the remainder of his life in the vicinity of a secluded Spanish 
monastery. 

3. temper and distemper: in the old physiology "temper" meant a 
proper mixture or balance of elements in the body ; " distemper," a depar- 
ture from a proper mixture and a consequent disturbance. 

4. The answer of ApoUonius : Apollonius of Tyana (cir. 4 B.c.-cir. 97 a.d.) 
was a late Greek philosopher with supposed magical powers. His reply to 
Vespasian (Roman emperor, 70-79 a.d.) is reported by Philostratus in his 
life of Apollonius, v, 28. 

5. saith Tacitus, etc. : " The desires of kings are mostly vehement, 
and inconsistent with one another." The author of the "sentence" was 
not Tacitus but Sallust {BelliiDi Jugurthi9nijn, 1 1 3). 

6. solecism of power : " solecism " here signifies inconsistency or 
incongruity. 

7. Memento quod es homo, etc. : " Remember that you are man ; remem- 
ber that you are God, or the lieutenant of God." 

Page 26. 

8. Nero . . . Domitian . . . Commodus . . . Caracalla : all Roman em- 
perors. Nero reigned from 54 to 68 a.d.; Domitian, from 81 to 96; 
Commodus, from 180 to 192; and Caracalla, from 211 to 217. 

9. Diocletian : Roman emperor from 284 to 305 a.d. He spent the later 
part of his life, after his abdication in 305, on his estates in Dalmatia. 

Page 27. 

10. that triumvirate of kings: the first reigned from 1509 to 1547; 
the second, from 151 5 to 1547; and the third, from 1519 to 1556. 

11. Guicciardine : Francesco Guicciardini (1483- 1540), a Florentine his- 
torian, whose Storia d^ Italia (" History of Italy ") was one of the most 
important and widely read works of the Italian Renaissance. 

12. Ferdinando King of Naples: Ferdinand II (1469-1496). 

13. Lorenzius Medices : Lorenzo de' Medici (cir. 1 449-1 492), surnamed 
" The Magnificent," a Florentine statesman and patron of letters, the virtual 
ruler of his city from 1478 to his death. 

14. Ludovicus Sforza: Lodovico Sforza (d. cir. 1510), Duke of Milan. 



NOTES 399 

Page 28. 

15. Livia : see Tacitus, Annals^ iv, 3. 

1 6. infamed : defamed, 

1 7. Roxalana : the murder of Prince Mustapha through the instigation 
of Roxalana, one of his father's wives, took place in i 553. It was a favor- 
ite incident with Elizabethan dramatists, entering into no less than five 
plays between 1581 and 1638. See Wann, "The Oriental in Elizabethan 
Drama," in Modern Philology^ xii (191 5), 434-435. 

1 8. Edward the Second of England his queen : Edward II (reigned 1 307- 
1327) was deposed as a result of an uprising led by his queen, Isabella of 
France, and was murdered in prison. — The form of the possessive used in 
this phrase was the common form with proper names until well into the 
seventeenth century. 

1 9. advoutresses : adulteresses. 

20. Solyman : Solyman I, who ruled over the Ottoman Turks from 
1520 to I 566. 

21. Selymus the Second: Solyman's son. Sultan from 1566 to 1574. 

22. The destruction of Crispus : a.d. 326, Constantine was Roman 
emperor from 306 to 337 ; his sons died respectively in 340, 350, and 361. 

23. Philip the Second: King of Macedon from 359 to 336 B.C., the 
father of Alexander the Great. 

24. Selymus the First : Sultan of the Ottoman Turks from 1 5 1 2, when 
he dethroned his father, Bajazet II (i447-[5i2), to his death in 1520. 

25. the three sons of Henry the Second : the three sons were Henry 
and Geoffrey, both of whom died before their father in 1 1 83 and 1 1 86 
respectively, and Richard, who succeeded his father in 11 89 as Richard I. 

26. Anselmus and Thomas Becket : the former was Archbishop of Can- 
terbury from 1093 to 1 109, during the reigns of William II (1087-1100) 
and of Henry I (i loo-i 135); the latter, from 1162 to 1170, during the 
reign of Henry II (11 54-1 189). Both Anselm and Becket were defenders 
of Church privilege against the claims of royal power. Bacon's attitude 
toward them is typical of the Protestant and monarchical views dominant 
in England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 

Page 29. 

27. collation : gift, applied to the bestowal of a benefice upon a clergyman. 

28. I have noted it in my history of King Henry the Seventh : see The 
Works of Francis Bacon^ ed. Spedding, Ellis, and Heath, vi (1890), 242. 
Bacon's Histo?y was finished in 1621 and published the following year. 



400 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

29. vena porta : literally " gate veins." The meaning is perhaps ex- 
plained by the following sentence from The History of Henry the Seve?ith 
(quoted by M. A. Scott, The Essays of Francis Bacon, p. 89): "he could 
not endure to have trade sick, nor any obstruction to continue in the 
gate-vein which disperseth the blood." The term belongs to the medical 
vocabulary of Bacon's time. 

30. leeseth : a regular form, much in use in the sixteenth century, later 
entirely superseded by " lose," which is in part derived from the same root. 

3 1 . donatives : gifts. 

32. janizaries : Turkish troops forming the life-guard of the Sultan. 

33. pretorian bands : the body-guard of the Roman emperors. 

Of Truth 
First printed (as No. i) in the edition of 1625. 

Page 30. 

1. What is truth? John xviii, 38. 

2. sects of philosophers : the Sceptics, a group of ancient philosophers 
who denied the possibility of human knowledge. One of the most cele- 
brated representatives of the school was Pyrrho (36o.?-27o.? B.C.), from 
whose name the sceptical attitude was often known as Pyrrhonism. 

3. discoursing : the word may mean here either argumentative or discur- 
sive, that is, unsettled, roving. The sentence in which it stands has been 
interpreted, probably without any justification, as an allusion to Montaigne. 

4. One of the later school of the Grecians : Lucian of Samosata (second 
century a.d.), who discusses the question in his dialogue Philopseudes. 

Page 31. 

5. vinum daemonum : devils' wine. 

6. The poet . . . saith yet excellently well: Lucretius (cir. 96-55 B.C.), 
whose great poem, De Reriun Natura, was written to expound the philos- 
ophy of Epicurus. The passage quoted by Bacon is a paraphase of the 
beginning of Book IL 

7. round dealing : direct, plain, straightforward treatment. 

8. allay: an old form of "alloy." 

9. embaseth : destroys the purity of the metal by introducing alloy. 

Page 32. 

10. And therefore Montaigne saith prettily: Essais, ii, 18. Montaigne 
is here quoting and commenting upon a passage from Plutarch's Life of 
Ey Sander. 

1 1 . he shall not find faith upon the earth : see Luke xviii, 8. 



NOTES 401 

Of Death 

Written by 1607-1612; printed as No. 2 in both 1612 and 1625. The 
1625 text, which is reproduced here, differs in a few unimportant details 
from that of 161 2. 

1. the friars' books of mortification: books of devotion intended to 
faciUtate the subduing of the bodily appetites. 

2. Pompa mortis, etc. : '' The shows of death are more fearful than death 
itself." Quoted freely from Seneca, Epistolcs iii, 3, 14. 

3. Groans and convulsions, etc. : this sentence may have been suggested 
to Bacon by the following passage from Montaigne's essay " Que philosopher 
c'est apprendre k mourir " (i, 20), as translated by Florio : '' I verily believe 
these fearful looks and astonishing countenances wherewith we encompass 
it are those that more amaze and terrify us than death : a new form of life ; 
the outcries of mothers ; the wailing of women and children ; the visitation 
of dismayed and swooning friends ; the assistance of a number of pale- 
looking, distracted, and whining servants ; a dark chamber ; tapers burning 
round about ; our couch beset round with physicians and preachers ; and 
to conclude, nothing but horror and astonishment on every side of us : are 
we not already dead and buried 1 " 

4. mates : weakens, overpowers. 

Page 33. 

5. pre-occupateth : anticipates. 

6. Otho the Emperor : Roman emperor, January-April, 69 a.d. 

7. niceness : the word may mean either luxury or fastidiousness. 

8. Cogita quamdiu, etc. : Seneca, Epistolcs iii, i : '' Think how fre- 
quently you do the same things ; one may wish to die, not so much because 
he is brave or miserable as because he is weary of living." 

9. Livia, conjugii, etc.: Suetonius, AtigusttLs^ 99: " Livia, in remem- 
brance of our married life, live on; farewell." This and the quotations 
that follow reflect a very characteristic element in Bacon's culture — his 
fondness for the Roman historians. 

10. lam Tiberium, etc.: Tacitus, Ajtnals, vi, 50: " Tiberius's strength 
and manhood were now leaving him, but not his love of dissimulation." 

IT. Ut puto Deus fio : Suetonius, Vespasian^ 23 : "I suppose that I am 
becoming a god." 

12. Feri, si ex re, etc.: Tacitus, Historia i, 41 : "Strike, if it be for 
the good of the Roman people." 

13. Adeste si quid, etc. : Dion Cassius, Ixxvi, 17 : " Make haste, if any- 
thing remains for me to do." 



402 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

14. qui finem vitae, etc.: "Who counts the end of life as one of 
Nature's gifts." An inaccurate quotation from Juvenal, Sath'es^ x, 358. 

1 5. the sweetest canticle is Nunc dimittis : the song of Simeon : " Lord, 
now lettest thy servant depart in peace." See Luke ii, 29-32. 

16. Extinctus amabitur idem: Horace, EpistolcE II, i, 14: "The same 
one, dead, will be loved." 

Of Adversity 

First printed (as No. 5) in the edition of 1625. If, as appears likely. 
Bacon in writing this essay was thinking of his own period of adversity 
following his conviction and disgrace on the charge of corruption, its date 
of composition must have been after 1621. 

Page 34. 

1. Seneca: the two quotations are from Epistolce VII, iv, 29 and VI, 
i, 12 respectively. 

2. transcendences : elevated sentiments and expressions. 

3. Prometheus : according to the Greek myth, Prometheus, for the crime 
of giving mankind fire, was bound by Zeus to a rock on Mt. Caucasus, 
where he was the prey of a huge vulture. He was released by Hercules. 

Of Envy 
First printed (as No. 9) in the edition of 1625. 

Page 35. 

1. an ejaculation or irradiation of the eye: "ejaculation" here means 
the emission of rays having a magic influence. 

2. curiosities : niceties. 

3. to come at even hand : to make himself even. 

Page 36. 

4. play-pleasure : the pleasure one takes in looking at a play. 

5. Non est curiosus, etc. : " No one is curious without being also 
malevolent." 

6. Narses : a Byzantine general (cir, 478-cir. 573 a.d.). 

7. Agesilaus : see note 8 to page 10. 

8. Tamberlanes : see note 1 1 to page 1 2. 

9. Adrian the Emperor : Publius ^lius Hadrianus, Roman emperor 
from 117 to 138 A.D. 

I o. incurreth : here used in the etymological sense of running into 
or toward. 



NOTES 403 

Page 37. 

1 1 . per saltum : at a bound. 

1 2. quanta patimur : how much we suffer. 

Page 38. 

13. derive : to turn the course of, divert. 

Page 39. 

1 4. plausible : worthy of applause. 

15. estates: states, bodies poh tic. 

16. Invidia festos dies non agit : '' Envy takes no holidays." 

1 7. The envious man, that soweth tares, etc. : probably a reminiscence of 
Matthew xiii, 25. 

Of Travel 
First printed (as No. 18) in the edition of 1625. 

Page 40. 

1 . allow : approve. 

2. bourses : stock exchanges. The word is derived from (Fr.) bourse^ 
a purse. 

3. triumphs, masques : see Bacon's essay on this subject. 

Page 41. 

4. a great adamant of acquaintance : adamant here means loadstone 

or magnet. 

Of Friendship 
An essay "Of Friendship" appeared in the 161 2 edition of Bacon's 
Essays. It was entirely rewritten, however, for the collection of 1625, in 
which it appeared as No. 27. The latter text is printed here. 

Page 42. 

1. Whosoever is delighted in solitude, etc. : Aristode, Politics i, 2, 14. 

2. aversation : aversion. 

3. Epimenides, etc. : Epimenides (seventh century B.C.), a Cretan poet 
and prophet. Numa, the legendary second king of Rome. Empedocles 
(cir. 490-430 B.C.), a Sicilian philosopher and poet. On Apollonius see 
note 4 to page 25. 

4. Magna civitas, magna solitude : '' A great city is a great solitude." 
Bacon probably quoted the phrase from Erasmus's Adagia. See Introduc- 
tion, p. xii, and note 1 2 to page 1 2. 

5. sarza, etc. : names of medicines in familiar use in Bacon's time. 
Sarza is modern sarsaparilla ; castoreum, a secretion of the beaver. 



404 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 43, 

6. privadoes : private friends (Spanish). 

7. participes curarum : sharers of sorrows or cares. 

8. L. Sylla, etc. : of the "examples" cited in this paragraph, the anec- 
dote of Sylla and Pompey came from Plutarch's Life of Poinpey \ that of 
Caesar and Brutus, from the same writer's Life of Ccesar ; the characteriza- 
tion of Brutus from Cicero's Philippics (xiii, 11); the remark of Maecenas, 
from Dion Cassius' Roman History (\v\, 6); the account of Tiberius's friend- 
ship with Sejanus, from Tacitus's Annals (Iv, 40) ; and the story of Severus 
and Plautianus, from Dion Cassius (Ixxv, 15). Sylla or Sulla (138-78 B.C.) 
and Pompey (106-48 B.C.) were Roman generals of the later days of the 
Republic, at first friends, but later rivals. By " against the pursuit of Sylla" 
Bacon means that Sylla was supporting another candidate. Augustus 
(63 B.C.-14 A.D.), Tiberius Caesar (42 B.C.-37 a.d.), and Septimius Severus 
(146-21 1 A.D.) were Roman emperors. Maecenas (d. 8 B.C.) was a states- 
man of the reign of Augustus ; he is perhaps best known as the patron 
of Virgil and Horace. Agrippa (63-12 B.C.) was the leading statesman of 
the same reign ; he married Augustus's daughter Julia as his third wife. 
Sejanus (d. 31 a.d.) was the chief minister of Tiberius. His career was 
made familiar to Bacon's contemporaries by a tragedy of Ben Jonson. 
Plautianus was praetorian prefect during the reign of Septimius Severus. 

Page 44. 

9. Haec pro amicitia nostri non occultavi : "I have told you this in 
consideration of our friendship." 

10. mought: an old form of "might." 
Page 45. 

1 1 . Comineus : Philip de Commines, a French historian of the fifteenth 
century (cir. 1 447-1 511). His Memoi7'es narrated the more important 
events of the reign of Louis XI, especially his wars with Charles the Bold 
of Burgundy. 

12. Pythagoras: Greek philosopher (cir. 582-cir. 500 B.C.). The saying 
attributed to him here is quoted in Plutarch's essay Of the Education 
of Childj'en. 

13. It was well said by Themistocles : see Plutarch's Life ofTheinistocles. 
Page 46. 

14. Heraclitus : Greek philosopher (cir. 535-cir. 475 B.C.). 

15. St. James saith : James i, 23, 24. 
Page 47. 

16. the four and twenty letters : in Bacon's day / and/, and u and v 
were not differentiated, except to a certain extent typographically. 



NOTES 405 

Of Plantations 

First published (as No. 33) in the edition of 1625. The subject of 
" plantations," or colonies, was provoking much discussion in England at 
the time ; and Bacon's own interest in it had more than a speculative basis. 
He was an " adventurer," or stockholder, in the London or South Virginia 
Company, chartered in 1609, and he took a lively interest in the projects 
for planting English colonies in the north of Ireland. Many of the 
practical directions for the conduct of plantations which he gives in the 
essay may well have been suggested to him by his observation of these 
contemporary enterprises. 

Page 48. 

1 . leese : lose. 

Page 49. 

2. It is a shameful and unblessed thing to take the scum of people : as 

was done, for example, in the early attempts to colonize Virginia, of which 
perhaps Bacon was thinking. 

3. artichokes of Hierusalem : a plant with an edible root introduced 
from South America by the Italians, who called it girasole ai^ticiocco^ or 
"sunflower artichoke." The connection with Jerusalem was evidently due 
to English misunderstanding of the Italian name. 

4. his own private : his own private use or business. 

Page 50. 

5. as it hath fared with tobacco in Virginia : as the English text of this 
passage stands, it seems natural to make the phrase "as it hath fared with 
tobacco in Virginia " modify " to the untimely prejudice of the main busi- 
ness." This interpretation, moreover, has the support of the known facts 
concerning the early cultivation of tobacco in Virginia. Gardiner {Histo7y 
of E7igla7id . . . 160J-1642 (ed. 1901), III, 158-159) thus describes the 
situation which resulted from its introduction in 1616: " Everyone was in 
haste to grow rich, and everyone forgot that tobacco would not prove a sub- 
stitute for bread. Every inch of ground which had been cleared was devoted 
to tobacco. The very streets of Jamestown were dug up to make room 
for the precious leaf. Men had no time to speak of anything but tobacco. 
The church, the bridge, the palisades, were allowed to fall into decay, whilst 
every available hand was engaged upon the crop which was preparing for 
exportation. The natural result followed. Starvation once more stared the 
settlers in the face." The Latin translation of the Essays, however, part 
of which at least was done under Bacon's supervision, places the phrase in 
question after " charge of plantation " and before " so it be not, as was said, 
etc." — an arrangement which completely alters the sense. 



4o6 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

6. put in experience : proved by actual test. 

7. moil : labor, drudge. 

8. undertakers : projectors. 

9. marish : marshy. 

Page 51. 

ID. gingles : an old spelling of "jingles." 

Of Gardens 

First printed (as No. 46) in the edition of 1625. 

1 . lavender : the reader who is curious to know the modern botanical 
names of the plants and flowers mentioned by Bacon will find them care- 
fully distinguished in the edition of the Essays by Mary Augusta Scott 
(Scribner's, 1908). 

2. stoved : kept warm in a house by artificial heat. 

Page 52. 

3. ver perpetuum : perpetual spring, 

4. fast flowers of their smells : flowers tenacious of their smells. 

Page 53. 

5. Bartholomew-tide : St. Bartholomew's Day, August 24, 

6. which [yield] : the original has here "which a most excellent cordial 
smell." The emendation given in the text is supported by the Latin trans- 
lation of the essay, which reads " quae habitum emittunt plane cardiacum." 
Spedding in his standard edition of the Essays follows the edition of 1639 
and prints " with a most excellent cordial smell." 

7. the dust of a bent : " dust " here means pollen ; a " bent " is a kind 
of grass. 

8. heath or desert : a part of the garden left more or less uncultivated. 

Page 54. 

9. letting your prospect: shutting off your view — "let" in the old 
sense of hinder. 

10. welts: borders, fringes. 

Page sS- 

11. statuas : statues (Lat). 

Page 56. 

1 2. and no grass, because of going wet : because it conduces to wetness. 

13. some fair alleys, ranged on both sides with fruit-trees : the original 
edition sets off the phrase " ranged on both sides " with commas, thereby 



NOTES 407 

confusing the interpretation of the sentence. Spedding reads " some fair 
alleys ranged on both sides, with fruit-trees " ; but the punctuation given 
in the text would seem more reasonable. 



ABRAHAM COWLEY 

The Dangers of an Honest Man in Much Company 

This essay was No. 8 in Several Discoiii'ses by Way of Essays^ in Verse 
and Prose, first printed in the folio edition of Cowley's works issued in 
1668, Like all the other essays it concluded with a bit of verse, which 
is here omitted. 

Page 58. 

1 . twenty thousand naked Americans : perhaps an allusion to the mas- 
sacre of Cholula in Mexico during the expedition of Cortes (1519). See 
Prescott, Histoiy of the Conquest of Mexico, Bk. Ill, chap. vii. 

2. cap-a-pie : from head to foot, completely. 

Page 59. 

3. the Toupinambaltians : a savage tribe of Brazil, celebrated for its 
" natural virtues " by seventeenth-century writers of voyages. See Chinard, 
V Ainerique et le 7'eve exotique dans la litta'ature fran^aise au XVIP 
et au XVI IP siecle (Paris, 191 3), chap. i. 

4. cozen : cheat. 

5. Go to, let us build us a city : see Genesis xi, 4. 

6. the beginning of Rome : Cowley in this sentence alludes to two inci- 
den-ts in the founding of Rome as related in Livy (I, vii, viii). Before the 
construction of the new city was very far advanced, the question of its 
name occasioned a quarrel between Romulus and his brother Remus. 
They decided to leave it to an augury of vultures. When Romulus won, 
Remus in derision leaped over the newly erected wall ; whereupon Romulus 
slew him. Later Romulus, in order to people his city, made it a place of 
refuge for the criminals and outlaws of the surrounding country. 

Page 60. 

7. the first town ... in the world: the city of Enoch built by Cain 
after his murder of Abel. See Genesis iv, 1 7. 

8. Quid Romae faciam? Mentiri nescio : Juvenal, ^l^/Zr^fi- iii, 41 : "What 
should I do at Rome? I know not how to lie." 

9. advice which Martial gave to Fabian : Epigrams, iv, 5. 



408 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 6i. 

10. Lucretius : De Rerujn Natura ii, i. 

1 1 . Democritus : Greek philosopher (born cir. 460 B.C.), traditionally 
known as the " laughing philosopher." 

1 2. Bedlam : this form represents the popular English pronunciation of 
Bethlehem. From the fourteenth century the Hospital of St. Mary of 
Bethlehem in London (incorporated in 1547) was the principal lunatic 
asylum in England. The word " bedlam," originally apphed to this hospi- 
tal, came in time to signify a lunatic asylum in general, and later still any 
scene of madness. Cowley is using it probably in the first sense. 

13. ut nee facta audiat Pelopidarum : quoted by Cicero, Ad Fami Hares 
vii, 30. With the substitution of "sons of Adam" for "sons of Pelops " 
the phrase is translated in the next clause. 

Page 62. 

14. Quia terra patet, etc.: Ovid, Metamorphoses \, 241-242: "Wher- 
ever earth extends, a wild fury reigns ; you would think that men had 
sworn allegiance to crime." 

1 5. the shepherds of Sir Philip Sidney : an allusion to Sidney's pas- 
toral romance Arcadia (printed in 1590, but written before 1586), a work 
still in general circulation in Cowley's day. 

16. Monsieur d'Urf6: Honore d'Urfd (i 567-1625), a French writer, 
author of the pastoral romance PAstree (1610), one of the most celebrated 
works of fiction of the seventeenth century. Lignon and La Forrest are 
names of places in the story. 

17. Chertsey : a small town on the Thames west of London, where 
Cowley was living when he wrote this essay. 

18. St. Paul's advice: i Corinthians vii, 29. 

19. mundum ducere and not mundo nubere : marry the world as a 
husband, and not be wedded to the world as a wife. 

Of Myself 
The last, or No. 1 1, of Cowley's Several Discourses. 

Page 64. 

1. Horace might envy in his Sabine field: Horace's country place 
referred to in many of his Odes. 

2. the conclusion is taken out of Horace : Odes HI, xxix, 41 ff. 

Page 65. 

3. I went to the university : Cowley became a scholar of Trinity College, 
Cambridge, in 1 637. He received his BA. in 1639, was elected minor fellow 



NOTES 409 

in 1640, and took his M.A. degree in 1642. In the winter of 1 643-1 644 
he was ejected from his college by the Puritans. 

4. I was cast . . . into the family of one of the best persons : after leav- 
ing college Cowley became a member of the household of Jermyn, afterwards 
Earl of St. Albans. In 1646 he accompanied the queen, Henrietta Maria, 
to France, where he was employed on various diplomatic missions by the 
exiled English court. 

Page 66. 

5. the failing of the forces which I had expected : for several years 
after the Restoration Cowley was unable to secure any aid from the gov- 
ernment of Charles II in recognition of his services. Finally, however, 
through the influence of the Earl of St. Albans and the Duke of Bucking- 
ham, he was given a lease of land in Surrey. 

6. a corps perdu : without reflection or hope of return. 

7. Non ego perfidum dixi sacramentum : Horace, Odes II, xvii, 9-10: 
" I have not sworn a perjured oath." 

Page 67. 

8. Nee vos, dulcissima mundi : the editors have been unable to discover 
the source of this quotation. 

9. quantum suf6.cit : a sufficient quantity. 

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY CHARACTERS 

JOHN EARLE 

Earle's "characters" were first printed in 1628 under the title of 
Microcosmographie^ or a Piece of the IVorld Discovered in Essays and 
Cha7'acters. There were many later editions. The present text is taken 
from Arber's reprint of the editio princeps in English Reprints (1869). 

A Mere Young Gentleman of the University 
No. 23 in the edition of 1628. 

Page 69. 

1 . neat silk strings : strings were used in the seventeenth century, as 
earlier, to hold the covers of books shut. 

2. a piece of Euphormio : Etipho7inio7iis Saty?'ico7i, a satirical novel 
written in Latin prose by John Barclay (i 582-1 621), a Scotchman who 
lived and wrote for the most part on the Continent. 

3. he studies arms and books of honour : books of heraldry and etiquette. 

4. an ingle to gold hatbands : a flatterer of the rich. 



4IO THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 70. 

5. Inns-of-court : see note 4 to page 83. 

A Contemplative Man 
No. 44 in the edition of 1 628. 

JEAN LA BRUY^RE 

The Character of Arrias 

A part of the chapter " De la Societe et de la Conversation " in La 
Bruyere's Les Caracteres on les inoeurs de ce siecle. The reflections form- 
ing the first paragraph appeared originally in the fourth edition of Les 
Caracteres (1689); the portrait of Arrias was added in the eighth edition 
(1694). The translation reproduced here is that of Henri Van Laun {The 
" Chai'acters " of Jean La Briiyere newly rendered into Etiglish. London, 
John C. Nimmo (1885), pp. 103-105). 

Page 71. 

1. Zamet . . . Ruccellai . . . Concini : three Italians, favorites of Marie 
de Medicis (La Bruyere's note). 

2. than . . . appear to ignore anything : a careless translation ; the 
original has " que de . . . paraitre ignorer quelque chose." 

THE TATLER 

The text of the 71z//^r presented in this collection is based on the edition 
of G. A. Aitken (4 vols., London, 1 898-1 899), corrected where necessary 
by reference to the original sheets and the early octavo reprints. A critical 
edition of the Tatler is still a desideratum. 

Prospectus 

This announcement was printed in italic type before Nos. i, 2, and 3 of 
the original issue of the Tatler — the "^^ gratis stock" referred to in the text. 

Page 73. 

I. Motto: Juvenal, Sat. i, 85, 86: "What mankind does shall my 
collections fill." 

In the original sheets Nos. 2-40 of the Tatler had the same motto 
as No. I ; in the early collected editions these numbers appeared without 
mottoes. From No. 41 on, various mottoes were used, with frequent recur- 
rence of Qnicquid agiint homines and frequent omission of a motto alto- 
gether. In neither the Tatler nox the Spectator v^oxo. the mottoes translated 
— a fact which Thackeray overlooked in writing the imaginary Spectator 



NOTES ' 411 

paper in Henry Esmond (Bk. Ill, chap. iii). Most of the translations of 
mottoes given in these notes are taken from The Mottoes of the Spectato?'s, 
Tatlers, and Gim^dians, trajislated into English. Second edition, 1737. 
While the versions in this book are not as a rule literal, nor always even 
accurate, they have perhaps the merit of being contemporary, or nearly 
contemporary, renderings. 

2. the convenience of the post : the mail for the country left London 
on these days. 

Page 74. 

3. White's Chocolate-house, etc. : the names of celebrated taverns in 
early eighteenth-century London. White's was situated in St. James Street, 
in the neighborhood of the Court, and therefore in the center of fashion- 
able life ; Will's (so called from the original proprietor, William Urwin), in 
Russell Street near the Drury Lane and Covent Garden theaters ; the 
Grecian (a resort of lawyers and scholars), in Devereux Court, off the 
Strand ; and the St. James (a favorite meeting place of Whig politicians), 
in St. James Street. 

4. some plain Spanish : wine. 

5. Kidney: the head waiter at the St. James Coffee-house, the object 
of many bantering allusions in the Tatler and the Spectator. See, in the 
former, Nos. 10, 26, 69, and, in the latter. No. 24. 

On Duelling 

Only the first part of this number of the Tatler — the "news" from 
White's — is given in the text. In the original the satire on duelling is 
followed by an essay, dated "From my own Apartment, June 14," on 
critics, and by a budget of foreign news, dated " St. James's Coffee-house, 
June 15." 

Page 75. 

1 , that ridiculous custom of duelling : this paper belongs to a series of 
essays, begun early in the Tatler., in which Steele attempted to picture the 
absurdities of the duel. The others are Nos. 25, 26, 28, 31, 38, and 39. 

2. huge falbala periwigs : the periwig, also called the furbelow, was 
the dress wig of the period. It was made with plaits, and its length pro- 
voked not a little satire. Thus in Tatler 1 80 was printed a mock adver- 
tisement of " a stage coach to set out every evening for Mr.. Tiptoe's 
dancing-school," to which was appended the note that " dancing shoes, 
not exceeding four inches height in the heel, and periwigs not exceeding 
three foot in length, are carried in the coach box gratis,'''' 



412 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

3. beauetry : so in the original. Chalmers in the Biitish Essayists 
reprint, followed by Aitken, emends to "beauty," which is clearly wrong. 
The word is a simple formation from " beau " on the model of " coquetry" 
from " coquette " ; its use in the early eighteenth century is attested by 
other passages. 

4. a long Duvillier : a furbelow ; named from a famous French 
wigmaker. 

Page 76. 

5. Don Quixote: Cervantes' (i 547-1616) novel satirizing the extrava- 
gances of the Spanish romances of chivalry. The first part was published 
in 1605, the second in 161 5. It was well known in England in the early 
eighteenth century, at least three translations having appeared since 161 2. 

6. Wantley : the Dragon of Wantley is the subject of a ballad of the 
seventeenth century, which celebrates his overthrow at the hands of Moor 
of Moor Hall, Yorkshire. Cf. Percy's Reliques^ Ser. HI, Bk. HI, No. 13. 
The reference to Suetonius is manifestly jocose. 

7. except France : where duelling was forbidden. 

Happy Marriage 

Page ']']. 

1. Motto: Virgil, Georgics \\^ 523-524: 

Meantime, his children hang upon his lips, 

His faithful bed is crowned with chaste delights. 

Page 'j^. 

2. Mrs. Mary : in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries " Mrs." was 
regularly prefixed to the name of an unmarried lady or girl. 

Page 79. 

3. baby : doll, a common usage. 

4. gossiping : christening. 

Page 80. 

5. a point of war : a martial tune. Cf. 2 Henry IV, IV, i, 52. 

Page 81. 

6. Don Bellianis of Greece : the first of these heroes belonged to a 
Spanish romance of the sixteenth century, translated into Enghsh in 1 598 
as The Honour of Chivaby, Set downe hi the most Famous Historie 
of . . . Prince Don Belliatiis, and reprinted frequently in the next two 
hundred years. The adventures of Guy of Warwick formed the subject of 
a romance popular in England from at least the thirteenth century; the 



NOTES 413 

story could still be read in 1 709 in as many as five versions, all the work 
of the preceding thirty years (see Publicatio7is of tJie Modern Language 
Associatioii^ XXX (191 5), 165-187). The "Seven Champions" were 
St. George of England, St. Denis of France, St. James of Spain, St. An- 
thony of Italy, St. Andrew of Scotland, St. Patrick of Ireland, and St. David 
of Wales. Their story, as told by Richard Johnson in a romance first 
published in 1 596, remained exceedingly popular with children and country 
people until well into the eighteenth century. John Hickathrift, or Hicker- 
thrift, was one of numerous popular English heroes who rose from poverty 
to greatness by their bodily prowess. Bevis of Southampton was the chief 
personage of a medieval romance similar to Guy of Warwick in character 
and of about the same date ; it, too, circulated in versions of the late 
seventeenth century. Summaries of most of these stories, together with 
reproductions of the crude woodcuts which adorned the editions in which 
Mr. Bickerstaff's young friend probably read them, will be found in 
John Ashton's Chap-books of the Eightee?ith Century (London, 1882). 
7. sprites : spirits. 

The Club at the Trumpet 
Page 82. 

1 . Motto : Cicero, De Senectute 46 : "I hold myself obliged to old age, 
which has improved my desire after knowledge and taken it away from 
eating and drinking." 

2. the Trumpet : this tavern was located in Shire Lane, near Temple 
Bar, on the site of the present Law Courts. 

Page 83. 

3. the last civil wars : the Great Rebellion of 1 642-1 649. The actions 
mentioned on this and the next two pages all occurred during this struggle : 
Marston Moor in 1644, the rising of the London apprentices in 1647, 
Naseby in 1645, and Edgehill, the first battle of the war, in 1642. 

4. a bencher of the neighbouring inn : the Inns of Court comprise four 
groups of buildings — the Inner Temple, the Middle Temple, Lincoln's 
Inn, and Gray's Inn — all situated near the central part of London, and 
belonging to legal societies which have the exclusive right of admitting 
persons to practice at the bar. A " bencher " is a senior member of one 
of these societies. 

5. Jack Ogle : a famous character about town in the time of Charles II, 
well known as a gambler and duehst. 

6. Hudibras : a satirical poem on the Puritans, written by Samuel Butler 
(1 61 2-1 680), and published in three parts between 1663 and 1678. It was 



414 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

written in octosyllabic couplets, many of which on account of their pointed 
sense and unexpected rimes have become familiar quotations. For an 
example see the next note. 

Page 84. 

7. the couplet where "a stick" rhymes to "ecclesiastic": Hudibras 

I, i, 11-12: 

And Pulpit, Drum Ecclesiastick, 

Was beat with fist, instead of a Stick. 

8. red petticoat : the story of Jack alluded to here is to the effect that 
once, while he was a trooper in the Guards, having pawned his own coat, 
he was compelled to appear on parade in his landlady's red petticoat. 

Page ^s- 

9. Nestor : the oldest of the Greek chieftains engaged in the siege of 
Troy. Cf. Iliad i, 249. 

10. " His tongue dropped manna " : Paradise Lost, ii, 1 1 2-1 13. 

The Character of Tom Folio 
Page 86. 

1. Motto: Terence, Andria, Prologue, 17: "While they endeavour to 
show their learning, they make it appear that they understand nothing." 

2. Aldus and Elzevir, Harry Stephans : printers famous for their edi- 
tions of the classics. Aldus Manutius (cir. 1450-15 15) was the founder 
of the celebrated Aldine press at Venice. Elzevir was the name of a family 
of Dutch printers whose greatest activity fell between about 1625 and 1650. 
Harry Stephans {Fr. Henri Estienne) was the name of two French printers 
of the sixteenth century — Henri Estienne (1470- 15 20), the founder of the 
family, and his grandson, Henri Estienne II (i 528-1 598). The allusion 
here is probably to Henri Estienne II, who was a classical scholar and 
editor as well as a printer. 

3. flashy : without substance, trashy. 

Page 87. 

4. a late paper : Tatler 1 54. 

5. ^neas : Cf. ^neidv'i^ 893 ff. 

6. Daniel Heinsius' edition: Heinsius (i 580-1655) was a celebrated 
Dutch classical scholar of the seventeenth century. His edition of Virgil 
was published in 1636. 

Page 88. 

7. Tasso : an Italian poet of the sixteenth century (i 544-1 595), the author 
Qijerusale7n Delivered^ one of the great epic poems of the Renaissance. 



NOTES 415 

8. Pastor Fido : an Italian pastoral drama by Guarini (i 537-161 2). 

9. the character : the type. 

10. sonnet: even as late as the early eighteenth century the term 
" sonnet " was frequently used to designate any short lyrical poem, 
especially one dealing with love. 

1 1 . various readings : the pedantry of editors of the classics was a 
favorite topic of satire with Addison. In Spectator 470 he ridicules at 
length the practice of printing after the text of a poem the different readings, 
good and bad, of all the manuscripts in which it was found. 

12. six lines of Boileau : Satires iv, 5-10: "a pedant drunk with his 
vain knowledge, bristling with Greek and puffed up with arrogance ; who 
out of a thousand authors remembered word for word and heaped up 
in his brain has often made only nonsense ; who believes that a book 
does everything, and that without Aristotle Reason itself cannot see, and 
Good Sense wanders." 

Recollections 

Page 89. 

1 . Motto : Virgil, jEiieid v, 49 : 

And now the rising day renews the year, 
(A day forever sad, forever dear). 

Page 90. 

2. battledore: an instrument resembling a racket used in the game of 
battledore and shuttlecock. 

Page 92. 

3. wine, of the same sort with that which is to be put to sale on 
Thursday next at Garraway's Coffee-house : a bit of puffing on Steele's 
part. The sale was formally announced among the advertisements in the 
same issue. 

False Refinements in Style 
Page 93. 

1 . a Grub Street book : a worthless, commercial production ; so called 
from a street in London (now Milton Street) formerly " much inhabited by 
writers of small histories, dictionaries, and temporary poems " (Dr. Johnson). 

2. Westminster Hall : the building, near the site of the present Parlia- 
ment Houses, in which the Law Courts sat. 

3. the Court of Requests : a court of equity intended for the trial of 
small civil cases. 



4i6 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 94. 

4. the Jacks : Jacobites, the supporters of the exiled Stuarts. 

5. altogether of the Gothic strain: "Gothic," originally applied to the 
productions of the Middle Ages, had come by the beginning of the eight- 
eenth century to have the general meaning of '' barbarous," " rude," 
'* unpolished." 

6. phizz, etc. : while the origin of most of these words is evident from 
the context in which they are used in the letter, one or two perhaps require 
a word of explanation. " Hipps " is an abbreviation of " hypochondria " ; 
" mobb " of Latin Diobile vulgus through mobile (which was used in the 
same sense during the seventeenth century); " plenipo " (on page 95), of 
" plenipotentiary." 

Page 95. 

7. The war has introduced abundance of polysyllables : Swift's meaning 
in this sentence is not altogether clear. " The war " can refer only to the 
War of the Spanish Succession (1701-1713); yet an examination of the 
passages cited in the Oxford Dictionary shows that of the eight words he 
mentions as introduced by "the war," five — the last five — were in use 
in England considerably earlier. 

8. banter, bamboozle, etc. : in spite of Swift's efforts at least three of 
these words — "banter," "bamboozle," and "mobb" — have survived in 
modern English speech. A " country put " was a lout or bumpkin. 
" Kidney " was slang for temperament or nature. 

9. your authority as Censor: see Tatler 162. 

10. Index Expurgatorius : an allusion to the lists of books which Catho- 
lics are forbidden to read, issued at frequent intervals since the sixteenth 
century. 

1 1 . sham, etc. : of the words in this list not explained above, and no 
longer in common use, "sham" meant a trick or hoax; "bubble," to 
delude or cheat; "bully," a blustering "gallant," or perhaps the protector 
of a prostitute ; " palming," playing a trick or cheating. 

Page 96. 

12. simplex munditiis : "of simple elegance." The phrase occurs in 
Horace, Odes I, v, 5. 

13. Hooker: Richard Hooker (cir. 1553-1600), author of The Laws of 
Ecclesiastical Polity, an elaborate and eloquent justification of the Church 
of England. 

14. Parsons the Jesuit : Robert Parsons (1546-1610), an Enghsh Catho- 
lic sent in i 580 by the Pope to attempt the conversion of England to the 
Church of Rome. His chief literary work was A Ch7-istia7t Directoiy. 



NOTES 417 

15. Wotton : Sir Henry Wotton (i 568-1 639) was English ambassador 
at Venice and the author of a number of poems and miscellaneous treatises. 

16. Naunton : Sir Robert Naunton (i 563-1 635) is best known as the 
writer of Fi'agmenta Regalia^ a series of descriptions of the chief person- 
ages at the court of Queen Elizabeth. 

I 7. Osborn : probably Francis Osborne (i 593-1 659) ; his chief work was 
Advice to a Son (1656, 1658). 

18. Daniel: Samuel Daniel (i 562-1619), an Elizabethan poet and 
historian, the author of A History of England. 

On Conversation 

1. Motto: Horace, Epistles I, iv, 8-9: 

What could a nurse for her dear child wish more 
Than that he might be sober whilst he lives, 
And able to express what he conceives. 

Page 99. 

2. the pedant : compare Addison's definition of pedantry, pp. 86-89, above. 

3. ubiquitary : omnipresent. 

THE SPECTATOR 

The present text of the Spectator' follows, except for details of spelling 
and punctuation, Professor Gregory Smith's reprint of the first collected 
edition of 1712-1715 (London, 1897-1898; Everyman's Library, 1907). 

The Character of Mr. Spectator 
Page ioi. 

1. Motto: Horace, y^rj /"(j^/zVis: 143-144 : 

He strikes out light from smoke, not smoke from light, 
New scenes of wonder opening to the sight. 

2. black or a fair man : a man of dark or light complexion. 

Page 103. 

3. Will's, etc. : the location of some of these coffee-houses is given above 
(note 3 to page 74). Of the others. Child's was in St. Paul's Churchyard ; 
the Cocoa-tree (a Tory house), in St. James Street ; and Jonathan's (accord- 
ing to the Tatler " the general mart for stock-jobbers ") in 'Change Alley, 
Cornhill. 

4. the Postman : one of the principal newspapers of the day, published 
on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. 



41 8 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

5. politics : politicians. 

6. blots : in backgammon the exposure of a piece or '' man " so that it 
is liable to be taken or forfeited is called a blot. 

Page 105. 

7. Mr. Buckley's : Samuel Buckley was the first publisher of the Spectator. 
His address was " the Dolphin in Little Britain." 

The Spectator Club 

1. Motto: Juvenal, Satires vii, 166-167: "But six others or more cry 
out with one voice." 

2. my Lord Rochester: John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (i 647-1 680), a 
poet and man of fashion in the time of Charles II. Pepys said of him in 
his Diary (Feb. 17, 1669) that it was '' to the King's everlasting shame to 
have so idle a rogue his companion." 

3. Sir George Etherege : a comic dramatist of the Restoration period 
(cir. 1 63 5- 1 691), a companion of Rochester in many wild escapades. In 
1676 both men were obliged to leave England on account of a brawl. 

4. Bully Dawson : a celebrated London sharper, contemporary with 
Etherege and Rochester. 

Page 106. 

5. a justice of the quorum : one of the justices of peace of a county, 
whose presence was necessary to constitute a court. 

6. a quarter session : a local county court meeting every quarter. 

7. Inner Temple : see note 4 to page 83. 

8. Aristotle and Longinus : two ancient Greek critics whose reputation 
was especially high during the period of neoclassicism. Longinus (210- 
273 A.D.) was the reputed author of a treatise O71 the Subli7ne. Aristode's 
(384-322 B.C.) critical work was the Poetics, an essay treating principally 
of the laws of drama. 

9. Littleton or Coke: Sir Thomas Littleton (1402-1481), an English 
jurist, was the author of a work on land tenures which, with the commen- 
tary by Sir Edward Coke (i 552-1 634), was long the authority on the 
English law of real property. 

Page 109. 

10. Duke of Monmouth : an illegitimate son of Charles II, much admired 
in English society for his fine manners and elegant dancing. In 1685 he 
attempted a rebellion against his uncle James II, but was defeated and 
executed. 



NOTES . 419 

Popular Superstitions 
Page iio. 

1. Motto: Horace, Epistles II, ii, 208-209: 

At magic miracles, hobgoblins, dreams, 
And the portents of Thessaly dost laugh ? 

Page hi. 

2. join-hand : writing in which the letters are joined in words — the second 
stage which an eighteenth-century boy went through in learning to write. 

3. Childermas-day : the popular term for the festival of the Holy Inno- 
cents (December 28), a day on which, according to a common superstition, 
'' it was impossible to have good luck " in any undertaking. The allusion 
to Thursday, March 8, as '' Childermas-day," and Mr. Spectator's reflection 
on the losing of " a day in every week," have puzzled several editors. Both 
remarks become clear, however, if one remembers that " Childermas-day " 
also signified " the day of the week throughout the year answering to the 
day in which the feast of the Holy Innocents is solemnized " (Dr. Johnson), 
and that in 1710 (reckoning the year, according to the old style still in use 
in the early eighteenth century, as extending to March 25) the feast fell 
on Thursday. 

4. the battle of Almanza : a battle in the War of the Spanish Succes- 
sion, in which the English under Lord Gal way were defeated by the French 
and Spaniards. It was fought April 25, 1707. 

Page 112. 

5. merry-thought: the wishbone. 

Page 113. 

6. death-watches : a popular name for certain insects which make a 
noise like the ticking of a watch — supposed to portend death. 

The Purpose of the Spectator 
Page 114. 

1. Motto: Virgil, Georgics \^ 201-203: 

So the boat's crew against the current row, 
But if they slack their hands or cease to strive, 
Down with the flood with headlong haste they drive. 

2. My publisher tells me : " The circulation of the Spectator^'''' says 
Professor Gregory Smith in his note on this passage, " is said to have risen 
from 3000 to 4000, to 20,000, and even to 30,000 copies. Ten thousand 
copies probably represented the average issue during the closing months of 
the daily issue." These figures, whatever their source, are curiously out of 



420 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

harmony with the evidence as to circulation presented by the essays them- 
selves. After his statement in No. lo, Addison said no more about the sale 
of the Spectato)' until No. 262 (Dec. 31, i 71 1), when he remarked that the 
demand for his papers had '' increased every month since their first appear- 
ance in the world." On July 31 of the next year, speaking of the Stamp 
Tax of a halfpenny on each half-sheet which was to go into effect the next 
day, and anticipating a falling-off in circulation, he declared that he would 
be pleased if his country received five or six pounds a day by his labors. 
Now five or six pounds a day in taxes implies a daily circulation of no 
more than 2800 copies — surely a modest enough expectation if the circu- 
lation before the Stamp Tax was imposed was really as large as Professor 
Smith supposes. Even these hopes, however, proved to be too high. In 
the last number of the daily issue (No. 555, Dec. 6, 171 2) Steele reckoned 
that the tax on each half-sheet had netted the Stamp Office on the aver- 
age something above twenty pounds a week — a sum implying an average 
daily circulation of perhaps a little over 1600. As he stated also that at first 
the tax had reduced the sale to '' less than half the number that was usually 
printed before this tax was laid," we are forced to conclude that at no time 
could the daily circulation of the Specfato?' have been very much over 3200. 
This was somewhat above the circulation enjoyed in 1710 by the official 
newspaper. The Lo?idon Gazette. See The Nation., July 8, 191 5, p. 70. 

3. It was said of Socrates : Cicero, Tusculance QucEstiones v, 10. 

Page 115. 

4. Sir Francis Bacon observes : Advancemeiit of Learning., ii. Intro- 
duction, §14. 

5. fellows of the Royal Society : the Royal Society for the advancement 
of mathematics and the natural sciences was incorporated in 1 662 after an 
informal existence of several years. Its president in 171 1 was Sir Isaac 
Newton. Addison and Steele in their advocacy of a general literary culture 
found much to ridicule in the specialization which was characteristic of 
members of the Society. " They seem," Steele wrote in Tatler 236, " to 
be in a confederacy against men of polite genius, noble thought, and dif- 
fusive learning, and choose into their assemblies such as have no pretence 
to wisdom but want of wit, or to natural knowledge but ignorance of every- 
thing else. I have made observations in this matter so long that when I 
meet with a young fellow that is an humble admirer of these sciences, but 
more dull than the rest of the company, I conclude him to be a Fellow of 
the Royal Society." 

6. Templars : barristers who were members of the Middle or Inner 
Temple. See note 4 to page 83. 



NOTES 421 

Ill-nature in Satire 
Page 1 1 7. 

1. Motto: Virgil, yEneidix, 420-421 : 

Fierce Volscens foams with rage, and gazing round 
Descried not him who gave the fatal wound, 
Nor knew to fix revenge 

Page 118. 

2. a passage in Socrates's behaviour at his death : see Plato's Phcsdo. 

3. Aristophanes : the greatest Greek writer of comedy (cir. 450-cir. 380 
B.C.). He attacked Socrates in The Clouds. 

Page 119. 

4. Catullus : Roman lyric poet (cir. 87-cir. 54 B.C.). For the passage 
alluded to in the text see Ca?'jni?ia xxix. 

5. Cardinal Mazarine: French statesman and ecclesiastic (160 2-1 661), 
the successor of Richelieu as prime minister. The CallipcEdia of Claude 
Quillet, in which the Cardinal's Sicilian birth was made the subject of a 
jest, appeared in 1655. 

6. Sextus Quintus : Sixtus V, Pope from 1585 to 1590. 

7. Pasquin : an Italian of the late fifteenth century, variously described 
as a tailor, a cobbler, and a barber. His name was applied to a statue near 
the Braschi Palace in Rome, on which the populace were wont to affix 
lampoons, or " pasquinades." 

8. Aretine : Pietro Aretino (i 492-1 556), a famous and influential Italian 
satirist, commonly known as the "Scourge of Princes." 

Page 120. - 

9. a fable out of Sir Roger I'Estrange : I'Estrange (161 6-1 704) pub- 
lished in 1692 a translation of ^sop's Fables., which was frequently 
reprinted, and remained for a long time the most widely read version. 
A fourth edition appeared in 1 704. 

Meditations in Westminster Abbey 
Page 121. 

I. Motto: Horace, Odes I, iv, 13 ff. : 

Intruding death, with equal freedom, greets 

The low-built huts and stately gates 
Of lofty palaces and royal seats. 
Be wise, O Sestius ! to prolong forbear. 

Since life is short, thy hopes and care ; 
The fabled shades and gloomy state draw near. 



422 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 122. 

2. Homer: Iliad yiv\\^ 216, 

3. Virgil: ^;z<?/^vi, 483. 

4. in holy writ: The Wisdom of Solomon v, 12-13. 

Page 123. 

5. Blenheim : an English victory in the War of the Spanish Succession 
(1701-1713), won August 13, 1704. Addison celebrated it at the time in 
his poem The Cai7tpaigii (1705). 

6. Sir Cloudesly Shovel: an English admiral (cir. 1 650-1 707). He met 
his death by drowning when his ship was wrecked off the Scilly Islands. 

Coffee-house Company 

Page 124. 

1 . Motto : yi2X\i2S.^.Epigratns X, iv, 10: " Our book most strongly savors 
of the man." 

2. coffee-houses : for an extended description of the London coffee-houses 
of the early eighteenth century, see Ashton, Social Life in the Reig7i of 
Queen A7i?ie^ chaps, xviii, xix. 

Page 125. 

3. Westminster: where the Law Courts were situated. 

4. coffee-houses adjacent to the law : near the Inns of Court. 

Page 127. 

5. Tom the Tyrant : the head waiter at White's Coffee-house. 

The Journal of the Indian Kings 

According to Swift the ultimate source of this paper was a hint given 
by him to Steele. In the fournal to Stella on April 28 he wrote : " The 
Spectator \s written by Steele with Addison's help; 'tis often very pretty. 
Yesterday it was made of a noble hint I gave him long ago for his Tatlers^ 
about an Indian supposed to write his travels into England. I repent he 
ever had it. I intended to have written a book on that subject. I believe 
he has spent it all in one paper, and all the under hints there are mine too." 
The essay belongs to a large group of similar satires, of which the best 
known in English is Goldsmith's Letters from a Citizen of the World. 
For a partial list see Wendell and Greenough, Selectioiis frofn the Writings 
offoseph Addison^ p. 306 (Ginn and Company, Boston, 1905). 

Page 128. 

I. Motto: Juvenal, Satires xiv, 321 : " Nature and Wisdom always say 
the same." 



NOTES 423 

2. the four Indian kings: in April 1710 four (or, according to some 
reports, five) Iroquois chieftains paid a visit to England. Their ostensible 
purpose was to urge Queen Anne to drive the French out of Canada ; in 
reality their visit was a scheme of the English colonial authorities to im- 
press them with the greatness of England. During their stay in London 
they received a good deal of attention : their portraits were painted and 
engraved ; their alleged speech before the queen was circulated in pam- 
phlet form ; ballads were written about them ; and Steele introduced an 
account of them into the Tatler (No. 171, May 13, 1710). 

3. the Six Nations : the " Six Nations," or Iroquois Confederacy, were 
formed out of the earlier " Five Nations" by the accession of the Tuscaroras. 
As this event did not take place until some time between 171 2 and 1722 
[Handbook of American Lidiajis^ Part II, pp. 846-847), it is difficult to 
see how Addison came by the name in 1 7 1 1 . 

The Education of Girls 
Page 131. 

1. Motto: Horace, Odes III, vi, 21-24: 

The blooming virgin, ripe for man, 

A thousand wanton airs displays ; 
Trained to the dance, her well-wrought limbs she moves, 

And sates her wishing soul with loose incestuous loves. 

2. The two following letters : according to Henry Morley, these letters 
were written by John Hughes (i 677-1 720), a critic and miscellaneous 
writer and an occasional contributor to the Spectator. 

3. the Belle Sauvage : see Spectator 28. 

Sir Roger de Coverley at Home 

Page 133. 

1. Motto: Horace, Odes I, xvii, 14-16: 

Here to thee shall Plenty flow. 

And all her riches show, 

To raise the honours of the quiet plain. 

Page 136. 

2. the bishop of St. Asaph : the allusion may be either to William 
Beveridge (1637-1708) or to WiUiam Fleetwood (1656-1723), probably 
to the former. 

3. Dr. South: Robert South (i 633-1 71 6), one of the most admired 
English preachers of the time. 



424 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

4. Archbishop Tillotson : John Tillotson (i 630-1 694), Archbishop of 
Canterbury from 1691 to his death. 

5. Dr. Barrow: Isaac Barrow (i 630-1 677). 

6. Dr. Calamy : Benjamin Calamy (1642- 1686). 

The Character of Will Wimble 
Page 137. 

1. Motto: Phaedrus, Fables II, v, 3 : " Puffing hard, and making much 
to-do about nothing." 

2. the character ... of the gentleman : " The passage following," write 
Professors Wendell and Greenough {Selections from the IVritings of 
foseph Addisofi, p. 313) "makes this paper especially interesting in the 
development of character writing in England. It shows the formal char- 
acter embedded in what is almost a scene from a novel ; furthermore, it 
shows the character differing from the earlier work of Overbury, Earle, 
and others, in that the person here has a name, and that the characteriza- 
tion of him, though not in direct discourse, is really put into the mouth of 
one of the other persons in the story." See Introduction, pp. xxxi-xxxii. 

3. May-fly : here of course an artificial fly made in imitation of the 
May-fly. 

The Story of Eudoxus and Leontine 
Page 140. 

1. Motto: Horace, Odes IV, iv, 33-36: 

Yet the best blood by learning is refined, 
And virtue arms the solid mind ; 
Whilst vice will stain the noblest race, 
And the paternal stamp efface. 

Page 141. 

2. according to Mr. Cowley : Addison was thinking of the following 
sentence of Cowley's essay on " The Danger of Procrastination " : " But 
there is no fooUng with life, when it is once turned beyond forty." 

The Vision of Mirza 
Page 144. 

1 . Motto : Virgil, jEneid ii, 604-606 : 

While I dissolve 

The mists and films that mortal eyes involve, 
Purge from your sight the dross 

2. Grand Cairo : see Spectator i . 



NOTES 425 

A Coquette's Heart 
Page 148. 

1 . Motto : Virgil, ^neid iv, 64 : " He anxiously the panting entrails 
views." 

2. the dissection of the beau's head : see Spectator 275. 

Page 149. 

3 . mucro : the top or sharp point of anything. 

Page i 50. 

4. a Gordian knot : here any closely or intricately tied knot. The cutting 
of the original Gordian knot (so called from Gordius, king of Phrygia, who 
tied it) was one of the exploits of Alexander the Great most celebrated 
in legend. 

Page 151. 

5. salamandrine : having the qualities of a salamander, which, according 
to popular belief, was supposed to live in fire. 

Clarinda's Journal 

1. Motto: Ovid, Metamorphoses iv, 280: "One while a man, another 
while a woman." 

2. The journal with which I presented my reader : the journal of a citizen. 
See Spectator 317. 

3. Mohock : "One of a class of aristocratic ruffians who infested the 
streets of London in the early years of the eighteenth century " (New 
English Dictionary). They seem to have been especially active in 171 2. 
See Ashton, Social Life in the Reign of Queen Ajtne, chap, xxxvii, and 
spectator 324, in which a correspondent describes the usages of the 
Mohock Club. 

Page 152. 

4. an exercise: an allusion to Addison's words in Spectator 317: "I 
would . . . recommend to every one of my readers the keeping a journal of 
their lives for one week and setting down punctually their whole series of 
employments during that space of time." 

5. a new head : a new method of hairdressing. 

Page 153. 

6. basset : an obsolete game of cards, resembling faro, popular in the 
early eighteenth century. 

7. punted : a term in basset, meaning " laid a stake against the bank." 

8. Aurengzebe : the title of one of Dryden's " heroic dramas " (pub- 
lished 1676). 



426 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

9. tire-woman : a lady's maid. 

I o. crimp : an obsolete game of cards. 

1 1 . Cupid and Veny : familiar names for lapdogs. Veny = Venus. 

1 2. skuttle : a mincing, affected method of walking. 

13. Indamora: the name of a captive queen in Dryden's Au?'engsebe. 

Page 154. 

14. Nicolini : Nicolino Grimaldi (i 673-1 726), an Italian opera singer 
who came to England in 1 708 and was immensely popular with English 
society. 

1 5. mobs : the word may signify either a type of loosely fitting cap much 
worn at the time, or neglige attire in general. The latter meaning appears 
in the following phrase from Spectatoj' 302: "wrapping gowns and dirty 
linen, with all that huddled economy of dress which passes under the 
general name of a mob." 

16. dumb man: Duncan Campbell (1680 ?-i 730), a dumb astrologer 
and fortune teller much in demand in the early eighteenth century. He is 
the subject of one of Defoe's pamphlets. 

Page 155. 

17. an uncertain author : probably William Browne (1591-1643.?), best 
known as a writer of pastoral poetry. The lines have, however, been 
attributed to Ben Jonson. 

Cheerfulness 

I. Motto: Horace, Odes H, iii, 1-4: 

An even mind in every state, 
Amidst the frowns and smiles of fate, 

Dear mortal Delius always show. 
Let not too much of cloudy fear, 
Nor too intemperate joys appear, 

Or to contract or to extend thy brow. 

Literary Taste 
Page 159. 

1. Motto : Lucretius, De Rerum Natu7-a i, 933 : 

To hit 

Each subject with the best address and wit. 

2. Gratian : Baltasar Gracidn (d. 1658), a Spanish Jesuit, the author of 
an important and influential treatise on style. 

3. sensitive : pertaining to the senses as opposed to the mind. 



NOTES 427 

Page 160. 

4. Livy : Titus Livius (59 B.C.-17 a.d.), the historian of the early days 
of Rome. 

5. Sallust : Roman historian (86-34 B.C.) ; his two chief works dealt 
with the conspiracy of Catiline and the Jugurthine War. 

Page 161. 

6. Tacitus: Roman historian (cir. 55-cir. 117 a.d.). 

Page 162. 

7. Corneille, etc.: all of these writers were Frenchmen of the age of 
Louis XIV. Corneille (i 606-1 684) and Racine (i 639-1 699) were writers 
of tragedy; Moliere (i 622-1 673) was the most eminent of French comic 
dramatists; La Fontaine (i 621-1695) was the greatest of French fabulists; 
La Bruyere (i 645-1 696) was an essayist and social critic; Boileau (1636- 
171 1), Le Bossu (1 63 1 -1 680), and the Daciers — Andre (i 651-1722) and 
his wife Anne (i 654-1 720) — were Hterary critics. 

8. Longinus: Diogenes Cassius Longinus (cir. 210-273 a.d.), a Greek 
writer and statesman, to whom has been attributed one of the best-known 
critical works of antiquity, a treatise On the Sublime. 

9. forced conceits : extravagantly ingenious or far-fetched comparisons and 
illustrations. Antipathy to '' conceits " was one of the distinguishing marks 
of the "classical " movement in EngHsh poetry. Cf. Spectator 62, in which 
Addison contrasts '' mixed wit," or conceit, with " that beautiful simplicity 
which we so much admire in the compositions of the ancients." 

10. Gothic : on this word see note 5 to page 94. 

11. I entertained the town for a week: May 7 to May 12, 171 1. See 
Spectator 58-63. - 

Page 163. 

12. I have . . . examined the works of the greatest poet: Addison's 
papers on Milton appeared in the Spectator on Saturdays from No. 267 
to No. 369. 

13. an essay on The Pleasures of the Imagination : see Nos. 41 1-421. 

On Raillery 

1. Motto: Cicero, EpistolcB ad Familiares \n, i: " I have writ this, not 
through the abundance of leisure, but of love towards thee." 

Page 164. 

2. Calisthenes : the original of this " character " has been supposed to 
be Addison, 



428 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page i66. 

3. Mr. Congreve's "Doris": William Congreve (1670-1729), though he 
wrote some society verse of the type quoted by Steele, is best known as a 
comic dramatist, the author of four of the most brilliantly witty comedies 
of the Restoration school. 

On Gardens 
Page 167, 

I. Motto: Horace, Odes III, iv, 5-8: 

Or airy frenzies cheat 



My mind well pleased with the deceit ! 

I seem to hear, I seem to move, 

And wander through the happy grove, 

Where smooth springs flow, and murmuring breeze 

Does wanton through the waving trees. 

2. your thoughts upon some of our English gardens : see Spectator 414. 

3. kitchen and parterre : kitchen-garden (or vegetable garden) and 
flower garden. 

Page 168. 

4. plats of willow : plots or patches. 

5. treillages : trellises. 

6. Wise and London : a celebrated firm of London gardeners, largely 
responsible for the vogue in England of the formal Dutch garden, against 
which the present essay was one of the earliest protests. 

Page 169. 

7. the Pindaric manner: in the manner of Pindar (cir. 522-443 B.C.), 
the Greek lyric poet. What his " manner " was conceived to be in the 
early eighteenth century appears in the following sentence from Spectator 
160 (by Addison): " Pindar was a great genius of the first class, who was 
hurried on by a natural fire and impetuosity to vast conceptions of things, 
and noble salhes of imagination." 

Page i 70. 

8. that vernal delight which you have somewhere taken notice of : see 
spectator 393. 



NOTES 429 

THE RAMBLER 

The text of the Rambler giw&n here is based upon the last edition revised 
by Johnson, as reprinted by Chalmers in Bfitish Essayists (1803). 

The Folly of Anticipating Misfortunes 
Page 171. 

1. Motto: Horace, Odes III, xxix, 29-32: 

But God has wisely hid from human sight 

The dark decrees of future fate, 
And sown their seeds in depth of night ; 

He laughs at all the giddy turns of state, 

When mortals search too soon, and fear too late. — Dryden. 

Page 174. 

2. old Cornaro : Luigi Cornaro, an Italian writer on health, the author 
of a treatise on temperance and sobriety (1588). 

Page 175. 

3. Taylor: Jeremy Taylor (161 3-1 667), an eloquent English divine and 
religious writer ; his chief works are Holy Living and Holy Dying. 

The Misery of a Fashionable Lady in the Country 

1. Motto: Horace, Epistles I, i, 23: "How heavily my time revolves 
along." 

Page 178. 

2. At last economy prevailed : " economy " is used here in the sense 
of domestic management. 

THE CITLZEN OF THE WORLD 

Goldsmith's Chinese letters were originally pubhshed in the Public 
Ledger., a newspaper edited by John Newbery, between January 24, 1 760, 
and August 14, 1761. They were reissued in book form in 1762. The 
present text is that of the third edition (1774). 

The Chinese Philosopher in England 
Page 180. 

I . a factor at Canton : a commercial agent. 

First Impressions of England 
Page 182. 

I . a paltry piece of painting : signs were still largely used in the middle 
of the eighteenth century to designate houses. 



430 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

The Character of Beau Tibbs 
Page 192. 

I . mandarine : a toy representing a grotesque seated figure in Chinese 

costume. 

A Visit to a London Silk Merchant 
Page 194. 

I. as they say in Cheapside : a phrase equivalent to " as they say among 
us merchants." Cheapside is a street in the City, or business section of 
London. 

CHARLES LAMB 

Of the essays included in this selection, " Detached Thoughts," " Old 
China," " Poor Relations," and " The Superannuated Man " were first col- 
lected in the Last Essays of Elia (1833); all the others were included 
in the Essays of Elia (1823). 

A Bachelor's Complaint of the Behaviour of Married People 

Page 198. 

1 . free of the company : having the rights and privileges of membership 
in the guild. 

2. bring our spices, myrrh, and incense : probably an allusion to the 
gifts of the Magi to the infant Jesus; see Matthew ii, 11. 

3. " Like as the arrows," etc. : see Psalm cxxvii, 4-5. 

Page 199. 

4. per se : of themselves, because of their own individuality. 

Page 200. 

5. One daisy differs not much, etc. : probably a recollection of i Corin- 
thians XV, 41. 

Page 201. 

6. humorist : an eccentric person. 

7. " decent affection and complacent kindness " : from Douglas^ I, i, 43, 
a tragedy by John Home (i 722-1 808). 

Page 203. 

8. Morellas : cultivated dark cherries, named after a town in Spain. 

Valentine's Day 

I . Archflamen : a flamen was a Roman priest devoted to the service of 
a particular god. 



I 



NOTES 431 

2. tippet, rochet : ecclesiastical garments, the former a kind of cape, the 
latter a close-fitting vestment of linen. 

3. Jerome : Saint Jerome (d. 420), one of the fathers of the Latin church, 
translated the Vulgate version of the Bible from Hebrew into Latin. 

4. Ambrose : Saint Ambrose (d. 397), Bishop of Milan and one of the 
fathers of the Latin church. 

5. Cyril : Saint Cyril (d. 444), Archbishop of Alexandria and noted 
controversial theologian. 

6. Austin: Saint Augustine (354-430), the most famous of the church 
fathers ; he taught that unbaptized infants were damned. 

Page 204. 

7. Origen : (d. 253), one of the Greek fathers of the church and a prohfic 
theological writer; the reason for Lamb's statement that he "hated all 
mothers " is not apparent. 

8. Bishop Bull, etc. : George Bull (i 634-1 710), Bishop of St. David's. 

9. Archbishop Parker: Matthew Parker (i 504-1 575), Archbishop of 
Canterbury. 

10. Whitgift : John Whitgift (i 530?-i6o4), Archbishop of Canterbury. 

11. " Brush'd with the hiss of rustling wings" : Paradise Lost, i, 768. 

12. " gives a very echo to the throne where Hope is seated " : see Twelfth 
Night, II, iv, 21-22. 

Page 205. 

13. the raven himself was hoarse, etc. : see Macbeth, I, v, 39-40. 

14. "having been will always be": see Wordsworth's Ode on the 
Intimations of Inwwrtality,\\. 182-183. 

15. E. B. : Edwar-d Burney (i 760-1848), an illustrator and the brother 
of Frances Burney, the novelist. 

Page 206. 

16. Ovid : Publius Ovidius Naso (43 B.C.-17 or 18 a.d.), one of the great 
Roman poets of the Augustan age ; his subjects were usually amatory or 
mythological. 

1 7. Pyramus and Thisbe : a pair of devoted and unfortunate lovers, 
whose story is told in Ovid's Metamorphoses. 

18. Dido: the beautiful queen of Carthage, loved by ^neas, but later 
abandoned by him. Her story is told in part in Ovid's Heroides as well as 
in Book IV of the yEneid. 

19. Hero and Leander : the beautiful priestess of Venus and her gallant 
lover, the central figures of a tragic love story told in Latin by Ovid and 
in English by Marlowe and Chapman. 



432 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

20. Cayster : a river abounding in swans ; see Iliad ii, 459 ff. (in 
Bryant's translation, 566 ff.). 

21. Iris : in Greek mythology the messenger of the gods or the person- 
ification of the rainbow. '' Iris dipt the woof " is in Paradise Lost, 
xi, 244. 

22. Good-morrow to my Valentine, sings poor Ophelia : see Hamlet, 
IV, V, 46-51. 

Christ's Hospital Five-and-Thirty Years Ago 
Page 207. 

1. Christ's Hospital : a famous charity school for boys, founded in 1552 
by Edward VI in the buildings formerly belonging to the dissolved order 
of Grey Friars, 

2. eulogy on my old school : Recollections of Chrisfs Hospital, first 
published in the Gentleinan's Magazine (181 3) and reprinted with some 
changes in Lamb's \Vo7'ks (18 18), 

3. I remember L. at school : in this essay Lamb is not purely autobio- 
graphical, but purposely confuses Coleridge's experiences with his own. 

4. crug : still current slang in Christ's Hospital. 

5. piggins : small wooden pails. 

6. pitched leathern jack : a leather jug or bottle, covered with pitch to 
prevent leakage. 

7. banyan days : vegetarian days. 

8. double-refined : sugar, 

9. caro equina : horseflesh. 

10. crags : necks. 

Page 208. 

1 1 . griskin : the lean part of a loin of pork. 

12. good old relative : Lamb's aunt, Sarah Lamb (d. 1797). 

13. the Tishbite : Elijah (see i Kings xvii). 

1 4. Calne in Wiltshire : Lamb is here writing as Coleridge, who actually 
came from Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire. 

Page 209. 

15. Lions in the Tower: the lions, formerly one of the sights of the 
Tower of London, were transferred to the Zoological Gardens in 1831. 

Page 210. 

16. H , etc. : in Lamb's Key H's name is given as Hodges; Nevis 

and St. Kitts are islands in the West Indies; James Webb Tobin, the 
grandson of a rich sugar planter, died at Nevis in 1814. 



NOTES 433 

1 7. Nero : a Roman emperor (54-68) whose name has become a synonym 
for a wantonly cruel tyrant. 

1 8. leads : the roof, covered with sheets of lead. 

1 9. Caligula's minion : a horse which the mad Roman emperor, Caligula 
(37-41), fed on gilded oats and made chief consul. 

20. waxing fat, and kicking : see Deuteronomy xxxii, 1 5. 

21. ram's horn blast . . . Jericho : see Joshua vi. 

22. Smithfield : where there was a horse and cattle market. 

23. Perry : John Perry, mentioned in the Recollections^ was steward 
from I 761 to 1785. 

Page 211. 

24. grand paintings " by Verrio " : the picture especially referred to 
represents James II receiving the members of Christ's Hospital; Verrio 
(i 634-1 707) was an Italian historical painter. 

25. harpies : the creatures, part bird and part woman, who carried away 
or defiled the feast of the Trojans ; see yE7ieid iii, 225 ff. 

26. Trojan in the hall of Dido : ^neas tried to gain comfort by gazing 
on the Trojan scenes depicted in the temple being erected by Dido ; 
'* Animu7n pictura pascit inajii " — ^Eneid i, 464. 

27. goul : usually spelled " ghoul " ; an evil spirit that preys upon corpses. 

28. " 'T was said 

He ate strange flesh " : see Anto7iy and Cleopati'a^ I, iv, 6']-(i'^. 

29. the accursed thing : see Joshua vii, 13. 

Page 212. 

30. young stork : it was once believed that young storks fed and tended 
the parent birds. 

Page 213. 

3 1 . auto da f e : execution of heretics by the Inquisition ; the phrase 
literally means " act of faith," 

32. " watchet weeds": blue clothes; the outer dress of the Christ's 
Hospital boys is a blue coat reaching to the heels, from which they have 
the name " Blue-coat Boys." 

33. disfigurements in Dante : see, for example. Canto 28 of the Inferno^ 
where Dante describes the horrible mutilations and disfigurements ty 
which the guilty are punished. 

34. Howard : John Howard (i 726-1 790), the English prison reformer. 

Page 214. 

35. Ultima Supplicia : extreme punishments. 



434 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

36. lictor : the officer attending the highest Roman magistrates and 
executing sentence upon criminals. 

37. San Benito : the robe worn by the victim of an auto dafe. 

38. inhabitants on the two sides of the Pyrenees : the proverbially gay 
French and grave Spaniards. 

Page 215. 

39. "like a dancer" : see Antofiy and Cleopatra, III, xi, 35-36. 

40. "insolent Greece or haughty Rome" : from Ben Jonson's (1573?- 
1637) To the Meuiorv of My Beloved^ Master Williaut Shakespeare, 1. 39. 

41. Peter Wilkins, etc. : the first two are stories of travel and marvelous 
experiences; the last, the story of the rise of a Blue-coat boy through a 
rich marriage. 

42. Rousseau and John Locke: Jean Jacques Rousseau (171 2-1 778) in 
Emile, and John Locke (i 632-1 704) in So))ie Thoughts concerning Educa- 
tion, advocated educational methods that should force the child less and 
take more account of his natural inclinations. 

43. Phaedrus : a writer of Latin fables in verse (first century a.d.). 

Page 216. 

44. Helots to his young Spartans : Spartan parents exhibited to their 
sons drunken serfs (Helots) as deterrent examples. 

45. Xenophon : (cir. 430-after 357 B.C.), the Greek essayist and historian, 
author of the Anabasis. 

46. Plato : (cir. 429-347 B.C.), the Greek philosopher, disciple of 
Socrates and teacher of Aristotle. 

47. the Samite : Pythagoras of Samos (sixth century B.C.), whose pupils 
were not to speak of his teachings until after they had listened for five years. 

48. Goshen : the home of the Israelites in Egypt. It was exempted from 
the plague of flies ; see Genesis xlvii and Exodus viii, 22. 

49. Gideon's miracle: see Judges vi, 37-38. Lamb's reference to 
Cowley in the note is to stanza 7 of the latter's Complaint. 

50. "playing holiday " : see i Hen?y IV, I, ii, 227. 

51. Ululantes : howling sufferers. — Tartarus: the infernal regions ; see 
^£neid vi, 548 ff. 

52. scrannel pipes : 

Their lean and flashy songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw. 

Milton, Lycidas, 123-124 

53. Garrick : David Garrick (1717-1779), probably the greatest English 
actor-manager, whose death " eclipsed the gayety of nations." 



NOTES 435 

Page 217, 

54. Flaccus's quibble, etc. : Horace, Satires I, vii, 34-35 — a play upon 
rex as King, a personal name, and as king, a monarch. — tristis severitas 
in vultu : gloomy severity in his face {Andria V, ii, 16). — inspicere in 
patinas : look into your saucepans (AdelphcB III, iii, 74-75). — vis : force. 
The jests really are so thin as not to deserve extended commentary. 

^$. comet expounded : the appearance of a comet was formerly believed 
to forebode great disasters. 

56. rabidus furor : mad rage. 

^']. forewarned: expressly forbidden. 

Page 218. 

58. Coleridge, in his literary life : Biographia Lite? aria, chap. i. 

59. author of the Country Spectator : Thomas Fanshaw Middleton ; see 
the next paragraph of the essay. 

60. First Grecian : the Grecians were the two picked students who each 
year were given scholarships to Cambridge on the understanding that they 
should enter the Church. 

61. Dr. T e: Arthur William Trollope, who succeeded Boyer as 

Upper Grammar Master. 

62. fasces : the bundle of rods bound about an ax and borne before 
Roman magistrates as the symbol of authority. 

63. Cicero De Amicitia: Cicero's essay On Friendship. 

64. Th : Sir Edward Thornton, minister to Sweden, Denmark,. 

and later to Portugal. 

Page 219. 

65. regni novitas : "infancy of power ; see jEneid I, 563. Middleton was 
the first Bishop of Calcutta. 

66. Jewel: John Jewel (i 522-1 571), Bishop of Salisbury and author of 
Apologia p?v Ecclesia Anglicana. 

67. Hooker : see note 1 3 to page 96. 

68. poor S , ill-fated M : according to Lamb's Key., Scott, who 

died in a madhouse, and Maunde, who was expelled from school. 

69. Finding some of Edward's race, etc. : Matthew Prior's (1664-1721) 
Carmen ScEculare for 1 700, stanza 8, has " Finding some of Stuart's race," 
etc. Lamb changes to Edward, as Christ's Hospital was founded by 
Edward VL 

70. fiery column . . . dark pillar: an allusion to Exodus xiii, 21-22. 

71. Mirandula : Giovanni Pico della Mirandola (1463- 1494), a brilliant 
scholar and philosopher of the Italian Renaissance. 



436 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

72. Jamblichus . . . Plotinus : Neoplatonic philosophers of the third 
and fourth centuries a.d. 

73. Pindar: (cir. 522-443 B.C.), the greatest Greek lyric poet. 

74. C. V. Le G : Charles Valentine Le Grice in Lamb's Key. 

75. words of old Fuller : an adaptation of the famous passage in Fuller's 
Worthies concerning Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. 

Page 220, 

76. Nireus formosus : handsome Nireus, the handsomest of the Greeks 
in the war against Troy; see Iliad \\^ 673. 

77. junior Le G : Samuel Le Grice, who died in the West Indies. 

78. F : according to the Key, " [Joseph] Favell ; left Cambridge, 

ashamed of his father, who was a house-painter there." A fuller account 
of him is given as W in '* Poor Relations," pp. 266-268. 

79. Fr : Frederick William Franklin, master of the Hertford branch 

of Christ's from 1801 to 1827. 

80. T : Marmaduke Thompson, to whom Lamb dedicated his 

Rosamund Gray. 

The Two Races of Men 

1 . Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites : see Acts ii, 9. 

Page 221. 

2. " He shall serve his brethren " : see Genesis ix, 25. 

3. one of this cast, lean and suspicious : probably an allusion to Caesar's 
characterization of Cassius ; ste Julius CcEsar, I, ii, i92ff. 

4. Alcibiades : the celebrated Athenian general and politician, haughty 
and extravagant ; Lamb probably had in mind the figure in Timon 0/ Athens. 

5. Falstaff : see Henry IV, passim. 

6. Sir Richard Steele: Sir Richard Steele (i 672-1 729), the essayist 
and dramatist, an equally reckless borrower and generous spender. 

7. Brinsley: Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816), the dramatist, 
lived notoriously beyond his means. 

8. no more thought than lilies : see Matthew vi, 28-29. 

9. meum and tuum : mine and yours. 

I o. simplification of language (beyond Tooke) : as proposed by John 
Home Tooke (i 736-1 81 2), an English politician and philologist, in his 
Diversions of Purley. 

11. " calleth all the world up to be taxed" : adapted from Luke ii, i: 
" there went out a decree . . . that all the world should be taxed." 

12. obolary : impoverished ; an obolus was a very small silver coin. 



I 



NOTES 437 

13. Candlemas . . . Feast of Holy Michael: Candlemas (February 2) 
is a Scotch and Michaelmas (September 29) an English quarter-day, on 
which payments, particularly of rent, are due. 

14. lene tormentum : a gentle stimulus; see Horace Odes III, xxi, 13. 

15. cloak ... for which sun and wind contended : in one of the fables 
of ^sop. 

16. true Propontic : probably an allusion to Othello^ III, iii, 453-456. 

Page 222. 

17. the reversion promised : " He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth 
unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will he pay him again." — 
Proverbs xix, 17. 

18. penalties of Lazarus and of Dives : see Luke xvi, 19-26. 

19. Ralph Bigod : really John Fenwick, a friend of Lamb's of whom 
little is known. He is again mentioned in " Chimney-S weepers." 

20. To slacken virtue, etc. : Pa?-adise Regained, ii, 455-456. 

21. like some Alexander ..." borrowing and to borrow " : an alteration 
of Revelations vi, 2 — " conquering and to conquer " — and an application 
to Alexander the Great, who is said to have wept because he had no more 
worlds to conquer. 

22. periegesis : properly a description of a place or region ; here used 
in the sense of a journey about, a tour. 

Page 223. 

23. " stocked with so fair a herd " : see Milton's Comus, 152. 

24. Hagar's offspring : see Genesis xxi, 9-21. 

25. cana fides : hoary honor ; see ALneid i, 292. 

26. mumping visnomy : sullen countenance. 

Page 224. 

27. Comberbatch : Coleridge, who had once enlisted in the dragoons 
under the name Silas Tomkyn Comberbach. 

28. Switzer-like : enormous ; from the gigantic Swiss Guards formerly 
in the French service. 

29. Guildhall giants : the colossal wooden figures known as " Gog and 
Magog " in the council hall of the City of London. 

30. Bonaventura : Saint Bonaventura (i 221-1274), an ItaHan scholastic 
philosopher. 

31. Bellarmine : Roberto Bellarmino (i 542-1621), an Italian cardinal 
and Jesuit theologian and controversialist. 

32. Holy Thomas: Saint Thomas Aquinas (cir. 1 225-1 274), an Italian 
theologian and one of the greatest of the scholastic philosophers. 



438 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

33. Ascapart : the giant overcome by Sir Bevis of Southampton, the 
hero of romance. 

34. Brown on Urn Burial: Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682). His best- 
known works are Religio Medici and Hydriotaphia^ or Urn-Burial. He 
is famed for freshness and ingenuity of mind and for stately eloquence 
of style. See the motto and first paragraph of '' Imperfect Sympathies." 

35. Dodsley's dramas : Robert Dodsley's Select Collection of Old Flays 
(1744). It first made generally accessible many plays of the Elizabethan 
period. 

36. Vittoria Corombona: the central figure of The White Devil, a tragedy 
by John Webster (1580.?-! 625 ?). 

37. Priam's refuse sons : nine of Priam's fifty sons remained after 
Achilles had slain Hector. See Iliad xxiv. 

Page 225, 

38. Anatomy of Melancholy: by Robert Burton (i 577-1 640), It is an 
infinitely learned treatise on (i) the causes and symptoms of melancholy, 
(2) its cure, and (3) on erotic and religious melancholy. It is one of the 
curiosities of English literature and a great mine of quotations. 

39. Complete Angler : by Izaak Walton (i 593-1 683). It consists largely 
of dialogues between Piscator (Angler), Venator (Hunter), and Auceps 
(Falconer), in which the superior charms of angling are made clear. The 
work is interspersed with charming lyrics. To the fifth edition Charles 
Cotton (1630-1687) added a continuation on fly-fishing. It is largely in 
the form of a dialogue between Piscator, Jr. and Viator (Traveller), who 
proves to be Venator of the first part. A favorite haunt of Piscator is 
Trout Hall, "an honest ale-house." 

40. John Buncle : The Life of foJin Btincle, Esq. by Thomas Amory 
(169 1 i^-1788), an eccentric writer. John Buncle is married seven times. 

41. deodands : a deodand is in legal terminology a personal article 
which, having caused the death of someone, is sold, and the proceeds of 
which are distributed in charity, that is, given to God. 

42. K.: James Kenney(i 780-1849), a playwright, then living at Versailles. 

43. thrice noble Margaret Newcastle : besides the Letter's, Margaret 
(1624?- 1 674), wife of the first Duke of Newcastle, wrote The Life of the 
Thrice Noble, High-, (^^i^ Puissant Priiice, William Cavetidish, Duke, 
Ma7'quis, and Earl of Newcastle. Both she and her husband were dis- 
tinguished for their almost fantastic devotion to each other. 

44. Unworthy land, etc. : these lines were probably invented by Lamb, 
though the phrase " thy sex's wonder " occurs in Cyril Tourneur's (cir. 
1575-1626) The Atheisfs Tragedy, which Lamb knew well. 



NOTES 439 

Page 226. 

45. Fulke Greville, Lord Brook: (i 554-1 628), the friend and biographer 
of Sir Philip Sidney, and the author of many poems and some closet 
tragedies. 

46. Zimmerman on Solitude : by Johann Georg von Zimmermann (i 728- 
1 795), a Swiss philosophical writer. 

Imperfect Sympathies 

1. Motto : from Religio Medici^ Pt. II, sect, i ; see note 34 to page 224. 

2. Standing on earth, etc. : 

Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole. 

Paradise Lost, vii, 23 

Page 227. 

3. Heywood's Hierarchie of Angels : the passage is from Book IV, 
The Domi7iatio)is. Thomas Heywood (died cir. 1650) is best known as 
a dramatist, though he was also a poet and translator. 

Page 228. 

4. Minerva ... in panoply : Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, sprang 
fully armed from the head of Jupiter. 

5. true touch : a reference to the touchstone, by which the purity of 
gold was tested. 

Page 229. 

6. John Buncle : see note 40 to page 225. 

7. print . . . after Leonardo da Vinci : the picture referred to is the 
Virgin of the Rocks. Leonardo da Vinci (i 452-1 519) was a famous Italian 
artist and scientist — the painter of the MoTia Lisa. 

Page 230. 

8. Thomson . . . Smollett . . . Rory . . . Hume's History : James Thom- 
son, the poet of The Seasons, and Tobias Smollett, the novelist, were both 
Scotchmen. The delineation of Rory is in Roderick Random, chap. xiii. 
Smollett wrote a continuation of t]\& History of England hy David Hume, 
also a Scotchman. 

Page 231. 

9. Stonehenge : a celebrated English prehistoric monument formed of 
gigantic stones set up on Salisbury Plain. 

10. Hugh of Lincoln: a Lincoln child who, according to tradition, was 
the victim of a ritual murder by the Jews. See Chaucer's Prioresses Tale 
for a similar story. 



440 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

1 1 . congeeing : bowing. 

1 2. keck : retch, suffer vomiting qualms. 

13. B : John Braham (1774?-! 856), a great tenor, abandoned 

Judaism for Christianity, 

Page 232, 

14. Kemble : John PhiHp Kemble (i 757-1 823), the tragedian, brother 
of Charles Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. 

1 5. Jael : the slayer of Sisera, the enemy of Israel, who had taken refuge 
in her tent; see Judges iv, 17-22. 

16. " to live with them " : see Othello^ I, iii, 249. 

17. salads . . . Evelyn ... for the angel: John Evelyn (i 620-1 706), 
best known for his Diary. The reference here is to his Acetai'ia : a 
Discourse of Sallets. 

18. To sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse : see Pai^adise Regained, 
ii, 278. 

Page 233. 

1 9. a more sacred example : an allusion, probably, to the practice of 
Jesus when Jewish casuists sought to entrap him. 

Page 234. 

20. Penn : William Penn (i 644-1 71 8), the founder of Pennsylvania. 

Dream-Children 

This essay was probably begun very soon after the death of Lamb's 
brother John on October 26, 1821 — an event which in large measure 
occasioned the paper and colored its mood. 

Page 235. 

1 . great-grandmother Field : Lamb's grandmother, Mary Field, who died 
of cancer in 1792, had been for more than fifty years housekeeper at 
Blakesware, a countryseat, not in Norfolk but in Hertfordshire. It is, 
of course, the same place as the subject of the essay " Blakesmoor, in 
H shire." 

Page 238. 

2. seven long years ... I courted the fair Alice W n : according to 

the Key the name Alice W n was " feigned " ; in all probability the 

seven years of courtship was also — in duration, at least — a fiction. 
Apparently, as a youth. Lamb became tenderly attached to a young Hert- 
fordshire girl, Ann Simmons, — the Anna of his early sonnets and the 
Alice W n of the Elia essays, — but by the time he reached the age of 



NOTES 441 

twenty-one his passion for her had died. About the memory of her, how- 
ever, Lamb continued to gather sentimental longings and fond imaginings. 
Ann Simmons married a Mr. Bartrum, a pawnbroker of London. 

Page 239. 

3. Lethe: see j^neid v\, 748-751, which tells how spirits, after a long 
period of probation, drink of Lethe, that they may again be willing to 
return to mortal bodies. 

The Praise of Chimney-Sweepers 

1 . nigritude : blackness. 

Page 240. 

2. fauces Averni : jaws of hell; see yEneid \\, 201. 

3. stage direction in Macbeth : Macbeth^ IV, i. 

4. kibed : chapped, cracked with cold. 

5. tester: a sixpence. 

Page 241. 

6. fuliginous concretions : deposits of soot. 

Page 242. 

7. Hogarth : William Hogarth (i 697-1 764), a celebrated English painter 
and engraver. His subjects are usually some phase of " town " life, and 
his treatment is comic and satiric. 

Page 243. 

8. " air " them : probably an allusion to Cymbeline^ H, iv, 96. 

9. A sable cloud, etc. : see Milton's Comus, 2.1'})-'12\. 

10. Rachels mourning for their children: see Jeremiah xxxi, 15. 

1 1 . recovery of the young Montagu : Edward Wordey Montagu, the son 
of Lady Mary Wordey Montagu, in one of his runnings away from school 
became a chimney sweep. 

1 2. defiliations : losses of children. 

13. Howards: Howard is the surname of the dukes of Norfolk, who, 
in the English peerage, rank next after princes of the royal blood. 

14. Venus lulled Ascanius : see ^iieid'\^ 643-722. 

Page 244. 

15. incunabula : the literal meaning is " swaddling clothes." 

16. Jem White : James White (i 775-1820), a schoolfellow of Lamb's at 
Christ's and the author of a Shakespearean parody or imitation, Original 
Letters^ etc. of Sir John Falstaff. 



442 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 



Page 245. 

I 7. fair of St. Bartholomew : formerly held in Smithfield, a locality in 
London, on September 3. It existed from 1133 to 1855, 

18. not having on the wedding garment: see Matthew xxii, 11-13. 

19. Bigod : see ''Two Races of Men," pp. 222-224, ^^^ i^o^e 19 to 
page 222. 

20. Rochester: John Wilmot (i 647-1 680), second Earl of Rochester, 
a wild companion of Charles II. 

21. universal host would set up, etc.: see Paradise Lost^ i, 541-542. 

Page 246. 

22. Golden lads and lasses must, etc. : see Cymbeline^ IV, ii, 262-263. 

Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading 

Page 247. 

1. the Relapse : a comedy by Sir John Vanbrugh (i 664-1 726). 

2. Shaftesbury: the third Earl of Shaftesbury (1671-1713), the author 
of ChaTacteristics. Lamb, in " The Genteel Style in Writing," speaks of 
his " inflated finical rhapsodies." 

3. Jonathan Wild : The Life of Jonatha?! Wild the Great, by Fielding, 
is an account of the life of a notorious thief and scoundrel. 

4. biblia a-biblia : Greek for the preceding " books which are no books." 

5. Hume . . . Jenyns : David Hume (1711-1776), essayist, skeptical 
philosopher, and historian of England; Edward Gibbon (i 737-1 794), his- 
torian of Rome ; William Robertson (i 721 -i 793), historian ; James Beattie 
(1735-1803), essayist and poet of The Minstrel \ Soame Jenyns (1704- 
1787), miscellaneous writer, whose best-known work is A Free Enquiry 
into the Nature and Origin of Evil. 

6. Flavins Josephus : (37-cir. 95) author of fewish Antiquities and 
The History of the fewish War. 

7. Paley's Moral Philosophy : by William Paley (i 743-1805), an English 
theologian and philosopher ; it was for a long time the standard work on 
the subject in English. 

Page 248. 

8. Population Essay : Thomas Robert Malthus (i 766-1 834) promulgated 
the " Malthusian Doctrine" in his Essay on the Principle of Populatio?i 
(1798); this publication called forth a number of " population essays," 

9. Steele . . . Farquhar . . . Adam Smith: Sir Richard Steele (1672- 
1729), comic dramatist and originator of the Tatler\ George Farquhar 
(1 678-1 707), a writer of clever though frequently coarse comedies; Adam 



a 



NOTES 443 

Smith (i 723-1 790), the political economist. His Inquiry into the Nature 
and Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776) practically founded the 
modern science of political economy. 

10. Paracelsus . . . Lully : Philippus Aureolus Paracelsus (1493-1541) 
was a celebrated Swiss-German physician and alchemist ; Raymond Lully 
(cir. 1 235-1 3 1 5) was a Spanish alchemist and scholastic philosopher. 

1 1 . Thomson's Seasons : the poems The Seasons and The Castle of 
Indolence by James Thomson (i 700-1 748) in both form and matter largely 
continue the tradition of Milton and of Spenser instead of observing the 
dominant conventions of so-called classicism in English poetry. 

12. Tom Jones: the greatest novel of Henry Fielding (i 707-1 754); his 
others 2lXq fosepJi A //drews and Amelia. Fielding began foseph Andrews 
as a parody on Richardson's Pamela., in order to express his disgust with 
the latter's sentimentality and specious morality. His own novels are marred 
by coarse passages, but they are unsurpassed in the presentation of life and 
character and in wise and genial humor. 

13. Vicar of Wakefield : the delightfully tender and humorous novel by 
Oliver Goldsmith (i 728-1 774). 

14. Smollett: Tobias George Smollett (1721-1771) wrote Roderick 
Random., Peregrine Pickle., Ferdinand., Cou?it Fathom., Sir Launcelot 
Greaves., and Humphrey Clinker. These novels are, as a whole, marked 
by broad comedy, coarseness of feeling, and bustling action. 

15. Sterne: Laurence Sterne (17 13-1768) was a sentimentalist and 
whimsical humorist. His chief works are the novels — if they may be 
called such — T^'istram Sha7idy and A Sentimental Journey through 
France and Italy. In addition he wrote the Sennons of Mr. Yorick. . 

Page 249. 

16. capies . . . "eterne": ^ee Macbeth., HI, ii, 38. 

17. We know not where, etc. : see Othello., V, ii, 12-13. 

18. Life of the Duke of Newcastle : see note 43 to page 225. 

19. Sir Philip Sydney: (i 554-1 586), poet, romancer, and chivalrous 
gentleman ; author of the sonnet sequence Astivphel and Stella., the 
pastoral romance Arcadia., and the critical essay the Defoice of Poesie. 

20. Bishop Taylor : see note 3 to page i ']^. 

21. Fuller: Thomas Fuller (i 608-1 661), divine, antiquary, and volumi- 
nous writer. His best-know^n work is the History of the Worthies of 
England., a mine of antiquarian and biographical material. Fuller's style 
made him one of Lamb's favorite authors. 

22. first folio of Shakspeare : the first collective edition of Shakespeare's 
plays, published in 1623. 



444 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 



■ 



23. Beaumont and Fletcher: Francis Beaumont (i 584-1616) and John 
Fletcher (i 579-1 625) from about 1607 to 161 4-1 61 6 Uved in the closest 
personal and professional intimacy and jointly produced a number of plays. 
Fletcher, particularly after Beaumont's death, wrote a large number inde- 
pendently or in collaboration with other dramatists ; in one or two plays he 
probably collaborated with Shakespeare before the latter's retirement. Most 
of the plays in which Fletcher had a hand are loosely grouped as Beaumont 
and Fletcher's. Both Beaumont and Fletcher wrote poetry other than plays. 

24. Anatomy of Melancholy: see note 38 to page 225. 

Page 250. 

25. Malone : Edmund Malone (1741-1812), Shakespearean critic and 
editor. 

26. Kit Marlowe . . . Cowley: Christopher Marlowe (i 564-1 593), 
poet, and the greatest of Shakespeare's English predecessors as dramatist. 
Michael Drayton (i 563-1 631), a writer of English patriotic and love poems. 
William Drummond of Hawthornden (i 585-1 649), a Scotch poet; he 
also published Notes of Ben Jo7iso7i's Conversations. Abraham Cowley 
(161 8-1 667), poet and essayist. 

27. Bishop Andrewes : Lancelot Andrewes (i 555-1626), Bishop of Win- 
chester, and one of the translators of the King James version of the Bible. 

Page 251. 

28. pro bono publico : for the general good. 

29. Nando's : a London coffee-house, near which Lamb once lived. 

30. Candide : by (Frangois Marie Arouet) Voltaire (1694-1778). It is a 
romance satirizing philosophical optimism ; it is not at all the book of a 
devout churchgoer and in passages is highly indecent. 

3 [ , Cythera : a Grecian island sacred to Venus. 

Page 252. 

32. Pamela: Richardson's Pamela, or Virttie Rewarded is the story of 
a servant girl who resists her master's attacks upon her virtue and is at 
last rewarded by marriage to him. 

33. Lardner : Nathaniel Lardner(i 684-1 768), a nonconformist theologian. 

34. the five points : the cardinal tenets of Calvinistic doctrine — Origi- 
nal Sin, Predestination, Irresistible Grace, Particular Redemption, and the 
Final Perseverance of the Saints. 

35. "snatch a fearful joy": Thomas Gray (171 6-1 771), Ode oti a 
Distant P?'ospect of Eton College^ 40. 

36. Martin B : Martin Burney, a friend of the Lambs, to whom 

Lamb dedicated the prose part of his I Forks in 1818. 



NOTES 445 

37. Clarissa : Clarissa Harlowe^ Richardson's greatest novel. 

38. A quaint poetess : Lamb's sister, Mary. The poem is in Poetry for 
Children (1809) by Charles and Mary Lamb. 

Modern Gallantry 
Page 254. 

1 . Dorimant : a man of fashion in the Restoration comedy, The Man of 
Mode, by Sir George Etherege (1635 ?-i 691). 

2. poor woman . . . passing to her parish : on her way to the almshouse. 

Page 255. 

3. Eld : old age. 

4. Preux Chevalier : gallant knight. 

5. Sir Calidore : the hero of Book VI of the Faerie Queene and the 
pattern of courtesy. 

6. Sir Tristan : one of the most famous heroes of the romances of 
chivalry; see, for example, Malory, Book VIII. 

Old China 
Page 258. 

1 . terra firma : solid earth. 

2. the hays : an old English dance. 

3. couchant : here used in the heraldic sense — lying with the body 
resting on the legs and the head raised. 

4. Cathay : a poetical name for China. 

Page 259. 

5. Hyson : a fragrant green tea. 

6. cousin . . . Bridget : Lamb's sister, Mary. In the Essays of Elia 
Lamb always speaks of his sister as his " cousin Bridget." 

7. speciosa miracula : shining wonders ; YLox2iZt., Ars Poetica \Afi^. 

8. Beaumont and Fletcher : see note 23 to page 249. 

Page 260. 

9. corbeau : dark green, almost black. 

10. Lionardo . . . Lady Blanch: on Leonardo see note 7 to page 229, 
The Lady Blanch is usually called Modesty and Vanity. 

11. Izaak Walton . . . Piscator . . . Trout Hall : see note 39 to page 225. 

Page 261. 

12. Battle of Hexham . . . Surrender of Calais: comedies by George 
Colman the Younger (i 762-1 836). 

13. Bannister . . . Mrs. Bland: John Bannister (i 760-1 836), a noted 
comedian; Mrs. Bland (i 769-1 838), a popular actress and singer. 



446 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

14. the Children in the Wood: a "pathetic afterpiece" by Thomas 
Morton (i 764-1 838). In another play he invented Mrs. Grundy. 

15. Rosalind : in As Voii Like It\ Viola: in Twelfth Night. 

Page 262. 

16. " lusty brimmers " . . . Mr. Cotton: in Lamb's essay on " New Year's 
Eve " he used the phrase " hearty, cheerful Mr. Cotton," and quoted a 
poem by him. The New Year^ which contains the lines : 

Then let us welcome the New Guest 
With lusty brimmers of the best. 

Charles Cotton (i 630-1 687) is known as a poet, the translator of Montaigne's 
Essais, and the continuator of Walton's Coinpleat Angler. 

Page 263. 

1 7. Croesus : the fabulously wealthy King of Lydia in the sixth century B.C. 

18. great Jew R : probably Nathan Meyer Rothschild (i 777-1 836), 

the founder of the English branch of the famous banking family. 

Poor Relations 

Note the conformity of the first two paragraphs of this essay to the 
pattern of the seventeenth-century " characters." 

Page 264, 

1. Agathocles' pot: Agathocles, who became Tyrant of Syracuse, was 
the son of a humble potter. 

2. a Mordecai in your gate : Esther iii, 2. 

3. a Lazarus at your door : Luke xvi, 20. 

4. a lion in your path : i Kings xiii, 24. 

5. a frog in your chamber : Exodus viii, 3. 

6. a fly in your ointment : Ecclesiastes x, i . 

7. a mote in your eye : Matthew vii, 3. 

8. the one thing not needful : Luke x, 42. 

9. the hail in harvest : Proverbs xxvi, i ; the phrase there, however, is 
." rain in harvest." 

Page 265, 

10. tide waiter : customs inspector. 

Page 266. 

1 1 . aliquando sufiQaminandus erat : the Latin equivalent of the preceding 
phrase, " He may require to be repressed sometimes." 

1 2. Richard Amlet : a character in the comedy The Confederacy., by 
Sir John Vanbrugh (i 664-1 726). 



41 



NOTES 447 

13. Poor W : the F (Favel) of "Christ's Hospital"; see note 

y8 to page 220. 

Page 267. 

14. servitor's gown: a servitor is at Oxford a student partly supported 
by the college; the corresponding term at Cambridge is "sizar." It was 
formerly the duty of such students to wait at table. 

15. Nessian venom: Hercules was killed by wearing a shirt that had 
been dipped in the poisonous blood of the centaur Nessus. 

16. Latimer . . . Hooker: Hugh Latimer (1485-1555), Bishop of 
Worcester and powerful in the English Reformation, had been a sizar at 
Cambridge, and Richard Hooker (cir. 1 553-1 600), the famous theologian, 
a servitor at Oxford. 

Page 268. 

1 7. Artist Evangelist : St. Luke, according to tradition, was a painter 
as well as a physician. 

18. like Satan, "knew his mounted sign — and fled": see Paradise 
Lost, iv, 1013-1015. 

Page 269. 

1 9. at Lincoln : the Lambs came from Lincolnshire. 

20. young Grotiuses : Hugo Grotius (i 583-1 645), the famous Dutch 
jurist, wrote De Jtn^e Belli et Pads. 

The Superannuated Man 

The account of himself that Lamb gives in this essay is substantially true 
to fact, except that he had actually been employed in the East India House 
instead of by a private firm. On March 29, 1825, after thirty-three years 
of service, he was retired on an annual pension of ;^44i. 

Page 271. 

1. Motto: " Freedom has at last looked upon me": somewhat adapted 
from Virgil's Eclogues i, 28. 

2. O'Keefe: John O'Keefe (i 747-1 833), a prolific writer of light stage 
pieces. 

3. Mincing Lane : a London street, the center of the colonial trade. 

Page 272. 

4. native fields of Hertfordshire : Lamb was a Londoner born and bred, 
but his mother was from Hertfordshire and he had frequently visited his 
grandmother in that county. See " Mackery End." 

5. the wood had entered into my soul : " The iron entered into his soul." 
— Psalm cv, 18 (Prayer-book version). 



448 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 273. 

6. L : the Lacy, as B is the Boldero of " the house of Boldero, 

Merry weather, Bosanquet, and Lacy." Under the disguise of a private firm 
of merchants are represented the directors of the India House. 

Page 274. 

7. Esto perpetua : Be thou perpetual. 

8. Old Bastile : the infamous state prison in Paris, stormed by the 
Revolutionary mob on July 14, 1789. 

9. like the man — " that 's born," etc. : 

I know no more the way to temporal rule, 

Than he that's born and has his years come to him 

In a rough desert. 

The lines are from The Mayor of Quinborough^ I, i, 102-103, a 
comedy by Thomas Middleton (i 570-1627). 

Page 275. 

10. passage ... in a Tragedy by Sir Robert Howard : from The Vestal 
Virgin^ V, i. Sir Robert Howard (i 626-1 698) was Dryden's brother-in- 
law, and his collaborator in the India7i Queen. 

Page 276. 

1 1 . Ch . . . Do . . . PI : Chambers, probably Dodwell 

(possibly Dowley), and Plumley, three of Lamb's colleagues at the India 
House. 

1 2. a Gresham or a Whittington : Sir Thomas Gresham (d, 1 579) founded 
the Royal Exchange. Sir Richard Whittington (d. 1 423), the hero of popular 
tales, was thrice Lord Mayor of London. 

13. Aquinas: St. Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274), an Italian theologian and 
scholastic philosopher, the first printed edition of whose works filled 
seventeen folio volumes. 

14. Carthusian: the Carthusians are a very strict monastic order, whose 
principal monastery was until recently at Chartreux, France. 

Page 277. 

15. Elgin marbles: the finest existing collection of ancient Greek 
sculptures. They were brought by Lord Elgin from Athens to England 
about 1 800 and placed in the British Museum. 

1 6. cantle : piece, slice. 

1 7. Lucretian pleasure : Lucretius (d. '^^ B.C.) was a Roman philosophical 
poet. The reference here is to the opening lines of Book II of De Rer'imi 
Natura : 



NOTES 449 

Suave, mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis, 
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem. 

Bacon, in his essay " Of Truth," roughly translates: " It is a pleasure to 
stand upon the shore, and to see ships tossed upon the sea." 

1 8. carking : being concerned, anxious. 

Page 278. 

19. "As low as to the fiends " : see Hamlet^ II, ii, 519. 

20. Retired Leisure : see Milton's // Pe?iseroso^ 49-50. 

2 1 . cum dignitate : dignified — from the phrase otitim cum dignitale, 
dignified leisure. 

22. Opus operatum est : My work is finished. The phrase is probably 
employed here for the sake of the pun on *' opera." 

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 

Autumnal Commencement of Fires 
Page 279. 

1. "the web of our life," etc. : see A IPs Well that Ends Well, IV, iii, 
83-84. 

2. Theocritus : (third century B.C.), the famous Greek idyllic and pastoral 
poet. 

3. Petrarch: Francesco Petrarca (1304- 13 74), the first great poet of 
the Renaissance in Italy. 

4. Ariosto : Ludovico Ariosto (i 474-1 533), a great Italian poet of the 
Renaissance ; his chief work is the Orlando Furioso. 

5. Montaigne : see Introduction, pages xi-xvi. 

6. Marcus Aurelius : Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (i 21-180), a celebrated 
Roman emperor and the author of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. 

7. Moliere : the stage name of Jean Baptiste Poquehn (i 622-1 673), the 
greatest French writer of comedies. 

8. Poussin: Nicolas Poussin (i 594-1665), a famous French landscape 
and historical painter. 

9. Raphael: Raphael Sanzio (1483-1520), a great Italian painter, espe- 
cially of religious subjects. 

Page 280. 

10. great bed at Ware: a bed about twelve feet square, in an inn at 
Ware in Hertfordshire; it is referred to in Twelfth Night, III, ii, 51. 

1 1 . Hounslow Heath : formerly a waste tract on the great WesterA Road 
from London, haunted by highwaymen. 



450 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

12. Archbishop of Toledo . . . Marquis Marialva : probably the Arch- 
bishop of Granada and the Marquis de Marialva are meant ; Gil Bias 
served both of these as secretary ; see Gil Bias, Bk. VII, chaps, ii-xi. 

Page 281. 

13. Duodenarian : apparently coined by Hunt, as an epithet denoting 
small means, from duo denarii, twopence. 

14. Montaigne "of that ilk": Montaigne, lord of the estate of 
Montaigne. 

1 5. " And let my lamp at midnight hour," etc. : // Penseroso, 85-92. 

Getting up on Cold Mornings 
Page 282. 

1. Giulio Cordara : Giulio Cesare Cordara (i 704-1 785), an Italian poet 
and historiographer of the Jesuits. 

Page 283. 

2. decumbency : lying down, as " incumbency " is etymologically lying in ; 
see " incumbent," p. 284. 

3. " haled " out of their " beds," etc. : see Paradise Lost, ii, 596, 

Page 284. 

4. the Queen of France . . . that degenerate King : Eleanor of Aquitaine 
(1122.^-1204), wife of Louis VII of France and later of Henry II of 
England. Louis VII, "The Pious" (cir. 11 20-1 180), had shaved his 
beard in obedience to an archiepiscopal edict. 

5. Emperor Julian: Julian the Apostate, Roman emperor, 361-363. 

6. Cardinal Bembo : Pietro Bembo (1470-1547), a celebrated Italian 
man of letters. 

7. Michael Angelo : Michelagnolo Buonarroti (1475-1564), the most 
famous Italian artist — sculptor, painter, architect, and poet. 

8. Titian: Tiziano Vecelli (1477 ?-i 576), the great Venetian painter. 

9. Fletcher : John Fletcher, Beaumont's collaborator ; see note 23 to 
page 249. 

10. Haroun al Raschid : Caliph of Bagdad (786-809); a great Eastern sov- 
ereign, known in the West, however, chiefly through the Arabian Nights. 

1 1 . Bed-ridden Hassan : Bedreddin Hassan, the son of Noureddin Ali, 
in the Arabian Nights tale of that name. 

12. Wortley Montague: Edward Wortley Montagu (1713-1 776), English 
writer and traveler, son of the more famous Lady Mary Wortley Montagu 
(1689-I762), the traveler, letter-writer, and poetess of " the Town." 

13. ''Sweetly recommends itself," etc, : Macbeth, I, vi, 2-3. 



I 



NOTES 451 

Page 285. 

14. " Falsely luxurious ! Will not man awake ? " : Thomson, Sum7ner^ 
67 ; see note 1 1 to page 248. 

1 5. Holborn : is not to-day, and was not in Hunt's time, the longest street 
in London. 

The Old Gentleman 

Page 286. 

1 . Lady M. W. Montague : see note 1 2 to page 284. 

2. Churchill : Charles Churchill (i 731-1764), writer of satirical verse. 

3. George Anne Bellamy: (1731 ?-i 788), an Irish-English actress, the 
illegitimate daughter of Lord Tyrawley. 

Page 287. 

4. Blair's Works: Hugh Blair (17 18-1800) was a Scotch divine and 
man of letters whose Sermons were once extremely popular. 

5. Junius : the pseudonym of the unknown author of a series of brilliant 
satirical Letters published 1 769-1 772. 

6. American War : the Revolution. 

7. Lord George Gordon : an English agitator, tried for treason in connec- 
tion with the No-Popery rioting in London in i 780. 

8. Hogarth : see note 7 to page 242. 

9. Sir Joshua : Sir Joshua Reynolds (i 723-1 792), the celebrated English 
portrait painter, first president of the Royal Academy, and one of the 
founders of the Literary Club. 

10. Marquis of Granby : an English general in the Seven Years' War. 

1 1 . Comte de Grasse . . . Admiral Rodney : the Comte de Grasse com- 
manded the French fleet that cooperated with Washington in the capture 
of Cornwallis at Yorktown in 1781. He was defeated in the West Indies 
in 1 782 by the English under Admiral Rodney. 

12. Dr. Johnson's criticism on Hanway : see Boswell's Life^ anno 17 s^ 
(Vol. I, pp. 313-314 in Hill's edition). 

Page 288. 

13. Mr. Oswald . . . Mr. Lampe : the first is probably James Oswald, 
an eighteenth-century musician and dancing master ; the second is John 
Frederick Lampe (cir. 1703-1751), a German composer of songs and light 
operas, resident in England after about 1 725. 

14. Lord North . . . Lord Rockingham: the former was the English 
prime minister during the American Revolution ; he was succeeded in 
office by Rockingham. 



452 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 289. 

1 5. Garrick, Woodward . . . Clive : David Garrick (171 7-1 779), probably 
the greatest English actor-manager ; Dr. Johnson said of him that " his 
death eclipsed the gaiety of nations." Henry Woodward (1714-1 777), a 
noted comedian and mimic. Catherine Clive (i 71 i-i 785), an actress 
especially famous in light parts. 

1 6. Vauxhall . . . Raneiagh : both were formerly amusement gardens 
on the Thames near London. 

1 7. Newmarket : the site of a famous English race course where races 
have been run for the last three hundred years. 

Deaths of Little Children 
Page 290. 

1. a Grecian philosopher: Solon (cir. 638-cir. 559 B.C.), the great 
Athenian statesman. For the incident referred to, see chapter xvi of his 
Life by Diogenes Laertius. 

Page 294. 

2. "of these are the kingdom of heaven " : see Matthew xix, 14. 

3. " knowledge of good and evil " : Genesis ii, 9. 

Shaking Hands 
Page 296. 

I . two really kind men, who evinced this soreness of hand : the first one 
described is unidentified, the second was Hazlitt. 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 

On Reading Old Books 

Page 297. 

1 . Tales of My Landlord : several of Scott's novels were published in 
series under this general title. 

2. Lady Morgan : (1783 ?-i859) a writer of lively Irish novels. 

3. Anastasius : an Eastern romance, on its first publication in 181 9 
attributed to Byron, but actually written by Thomas Hope (i 770-1 831). 

4. Delphine : a novel published in 1802 by Madame de Stael, the cele- 
brated French bluestocking and miscellaneous writer. 

5. " in their newest gloss " : Macbeth, I, vii, 34. 

6. black-letter : the so-called Gothic type used in the earlier printed 
books ; it closely resembled the type used to-day in German books. 



NOTES 453 

7. Andrew Millar: Andrew Millar (i 707-1 768), Thomson's and Field- 
ing's publisher. 

8. Thurlow's State Papers: John Thurloe (161 6-1 668) was Secretary 
of State during the Protectorate of Cromwell. His State Papers were 
published in 1742. 

9. Sir William Temple's Essays : Sir William Temple (1628- 1699) was 
an English statesman and miscellaneous writer. See introduction to the 
present volume, p. xxii. 

10. Sir Godfrey Kneller : Sir Godfrey Kneller (i 646-1 723), a portrait 
painter, had as patrons Charles II, James II, William III, and Queen Anne. 

Page 298. 

11. rifaccimentos : rifacimento is literally ''remaking." The term is 
usually applied to a literary work which has been made out of another 
work. 

Page 299. 

12. " for thoughts and for remembrance": see Hamlet^ IV, v, 175-177. 

13. Fortunatus's Wishing Cap : Fortunatus, in the widely current popular 
tale, receives a magic cap, which will place him wherever he wishes to be. 

14. My father Shandy . . . Bruscambille : see Sterne's Tristram Shandy^ 
Bk. Ill, chap. XXXV. 

15. Peregrine Pickle : one of the novels of Tobias Smollett (see note 14 
to page 248). The " Memoirs of Lady Vane " are in chapter Ixxxi. 

16. Tom Jones: see note 12 to page 248. The Masquerade is in 
Bk. XIII, chap, vii; Thwackum and Square, Bk. Ill, chap, iii ; Molly 
Seagrim, Bk. IV, chap, viii ; Sophia and her muff, Bk. V, chap, iv ; her aunt's 
lecture, Bk. VII, chap. iii. 

17. " the puppets dallying " : Hajnlet, III, ii, 257. 

1 8. let this hump, like Christian's burthen, drop : in Pilgrim'' s Progress 
Christian's burden fell off when he reached the cross. 

Page 300. 

19. " ignorance was bliss " : Thomas Gray (171 6-1 771), Ode on a Dis- 
tant Prospect of Eton College^ 99-100 : 

— where ignorance is bliss 
'T is folly to be wise. 

20. raree-show : a peep show. 

21. Ballantyne press . . . Minerva press : the former was the Edinburgh 
printing house with which Scott was associated, the latter a London center 
for the issuance of cheap, popular fiction. 



454 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

22. the time " when I was in my father's house, and my path ran down 
with butter and honey " : the source of this quotation has not been deter- 
mined. It may be a confused recollection of Job xx, 17, ''streams of 
honey and butter," with the frequently occurring Biblical phrase " my 
father's house." 

23. Mrs. Radcliffe's Romance of the Forest : Mrs. Ann Radcliffe (1764- 
1823) was the most important of the late eighteenth- and early nineteenth- 
century novelists of mystery and terror. The Romance of the Forest was 
published in 1791. 

24. " sweet in the mouth" . , . " bitter in the belly " : see Revelations 
X, 9. 

25. " gay creatures " ..." of the element " . . . " living in the clouds " : 
see Milton's Comus, 299-301. 

Page 301. 

26. Tom Jones discovers Square : Tom Jottes, Bk. V, chap. v. 

27. Parson Adams . . . Mrs. Slip-slop : Joseph Andrews, Bk. IV, 
chap. xiv. 

28. Major Bath, etc. : the names are those of famous characters of 
fiction: Major Bath in Fielding's Amelia] Commodore Trunnion in 
Smollett's Peregri?ie Pickle ; Trim and Uncle Toby in Sterne's Tristram^ 
Shajtdy ; Don Quixote, Sancho, and Dapple in Cervantes' Don Quixote, the 
last name being that of Sancho's ass ; Gil Bias, Dame Lorenza Sephora, 
Laura, and Lucretia in Le Sage's Gil Bias de Santilla?ie. 

29. Memory ! etc. : these lines have not been identified as a quota- 
tion ; they are perhaps by Hazlitt himself. 

30. Chubb's Tracts : Thomas Chubb (i 679-1 747) was a tallow chandler, 
who wrote much on the deistic controversy. 

Page 302. 

31. " fate, free-will, etc. " . . . " found no end" : see Paradise Lost, ii, 
558-561. 

32. " Would I had never seen Wittenberg, never read book " : Faustus 
xvi, 20-21, in Bullen's edition; 11. 1376-1377 in Tucker Brooke's edition. 

33. Hartley, etc.: David Hartley (1705-1757), David Hume (1711- 
1776), Bishop George Berkeley (1685-175 3), John Locke (163 2- 1704), and 
Thomas Hobbes (i 588-1 679) were all philosophical writers. Hazlitt was 
at one time deeply interested in metaphysics. 

34. New Eloise: Rousseau's sentimental romance. On this and Rous- 
seau's other works see note 29 to page 3 1 6. 

35. I have spoken elsewhere: in the Round Table essay, "On the 
Character of Rousseau." 



NOTES 455 

36. " scattered like stray-gifts o'er the earth " : probably an inexact 
recollection of lines 27-28 in Wordsworth's Stray Pleasures'. 

Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find. 

Page 303. 

37. Sir Fopling Flutter: a character in Etherege's The Man of Mode. 
See also note 34 to page 318. 

38. leurre de dupe : decoy for a simpleton ; the phrase occurs in Book IV 
of Rousseau's Confessions. 

39. "a load to sink a navy" : see Henry VIII, III, ii, 383. 

40. a friend, who had some lottery puffs, etc. : Charles Lamb. 

Page 304. 

4 1 . Marcian Colonna is a dainty book : Marcian Colonna is a verse 
tale by Bryan Waller Procter — "Barry Cornwall" — (i 787-1874). The 
quotation is from a sonnet addressed to Procter by Lamb. 

42. Keats's Eve of St. Agnes: John Keats (1795-1821). The Eve of 
St. Agnes is a richly colored verse romance. The bits Hazlitt quotes 
here are both from stanza 24 : 

The tiger moth's deep damasked wings ; 
and 

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. 

43. " come like shadows — so depart " : Macbeth.^ IV, i, 1 1 1. 

44. "Words, words, words": Hamlet., II, ii, 194. 

45. great preacher in the Caledonian Chapel: Edward Irving (1792- 

1834). 

46. " as the hart that panteth," etc. : see Psalm xlii, i. 

47. Goethe's Sorrows of Werter and Schiller's Robbers: the first is a 
sentimental novel, published i 774 ; the second a " Storm and Stress " play 
published 1781, according to Hazlitt the first play he read. 

48. " giving my stock of more," etc. : see As You Like It, II, i, 48-49. 

Page 305. 

49. Authors of the Lyrical Ballads : in the spring of 1 798 Hazlitt visited 
Wordsworth and Coleridge at Nether-Stowey and Alfoxden. His essay 
" On My First Acquaintance with Poets " presents an extremely interesting 
account of this visit. 

50. Valentine, Tattle . . . Miss Prue : characters in Love for Love, by 
William Congreve (1670-1729), the wittiest and cleverest of the Restora- 
tion comic dramatists. 

51. " know my cue without a prompter " : see Othello, I, ii, 83-84. 



456 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

52. Intus et in cute: " Intimately, and under the skin"; from Persius, 
Satires III, 30. 

53. Sir Humphry Davy: Sir Humphry Davy (i 778-1829), famous 
chemist and man of letters. 

Page 306. 

54. Richardson . . . Clarissa . . . Clementina . . . Pamela : Samuel 
Richardson (1689-1761) was the first of the great English novelists. His 
novels are Pa7nela (i 740-1 741), Clarissa Haiiowe (i 747-1 748), and Sir 
Charles Grandiso7i (1753-1754)- They are tediously elaborated, but excel 
in analysis of feminine emotion and of m.otives of conduct. Pamela and 
Clarissa are the heroines of the two earlier novels ; Clementina is the 
beautiful Italian who went mad from love of the impeccable Sir Charles 
Grandison ; Lovelace, named in the footnote, was the betrayer of Clarissa. 

55. '' with every trick and line," etc. : see All's Well That Ends Well, 
I, i, 104-107. 

56. Mackenzie's Julia de Roubign^ . . . Man of Feeling : Henry Mac- 
kenzie (1 745-1 831) was an essayist and sentimental novelist. His novels 
are The Man of Feeli?ig {1771), The Man of the World {1772,), inndfulia 
de Roiibigne {1777)- 

^7. "that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken": Tristram 
Shandy, Bk. VI, chap. x. 

58. Boccaccio . . . story of the Hawk : the Decameron, fifth day, ninth 
story. 

59. Farquhar : George Farquhar (i 678-1 707), a comic dramatist of the 
Restoration school. 

Page 307. 

60. "at one proud swoop": cf. "at one fell swoop" — Macbeth, IV, 
iii, 219. 

61 . " with all its giddy raptures " : cf. " all its dizzy raptures " — Words- 
worth, Tint em Abbey, 85. 

62. " embalmed with odours " : Paradise Lost, ii, 843. 

63. His form had not yet lost, etc. : Paradise Lost, i, 591-594. 

64. " falls flat upon the grunsel edge, and shames its worshippers " : 
see Paradise Lost, i, 460-461. 

65. Junius's : see note 5 to page 287. 

Page 308. 

66. " he, like an eagle in a dove-cot," etc. : see Coriolamis, V, vi, 1 1 5-1 1 6. 

67. Wordsworth . . . Essay on Marriage : no such essay by Wordsworth 
is known. 



\ 



NOTES 457 

Page 309, 

68. " worthy of all acceptation " : i Timothy i, 15. 

69. Lord Clarendon's History of the Grand Rebellion : Edward Hyde 
(1608-1674), first Earl of Clarendon, was an English statesman who re- 
mained loyal to the king in the Civil War, of which he afterwards wrote 
the history from the Royalist point of view. 

70. Froissart's Chronicles: Jean Froissart (1337-cir. 1410) wrote an 
extremely picturesque CJiroiiique de France^ d'' Aught erre^ d^Ecosse, et 
d''Espag)ie^ which relates the events of history in western Europe from 
1325 to 1400. A spirited English translation was made by Lord Berners 
in 1523-1525. 

71. Holinshed and Stowe : Raphael Holinshed (d. 1580?) wrote Chroni- 
cles of England^ Scotland^ and Ii'elajid^ which furnished Shakespeare 
material for many plays. John Stowe (i 525-1 605) wrote or edited several 
chronicles of English history and a Survey of Loudou. 

72. Fuller's Worthies : see note 21 to page 249. 

73. Beaumont and Fletcher : see note 23 to page 249. 

74. Thucydides : (471 ?-40i ? B.C.), a celebrated Greek historian. 

"j^. Guicciardini : Francesco Guicciardini (1483-1540) was the author of 
a History of Italy from 1494 to 1532. 

"jd. Don Quixote : the great burlesque romance of chivalry, by Miguel de 
Cervantes Saavedra (1547-1616). 

']^. '' another Yarrow " : see Wordsworth's Yarrow l/nvisited, stanza 7. 

On Going a Journey 

Page 310. 

1. The fields his study, etc. : from The Earme?'''s Boy, Spring, 32, by 
Robert Bloomfield (i 766-1 823). 

2. a friend in my retreat, etc. : from Retii'einetit , 741-742, by William 
Cowper (i 731-1800). 

3. Contemplation may plume her feathers, etc. : see Milton's Coinus, 
378-380. 

4. a Tilbury : a light two-wheeled vehicle. 

Page 311. 

5. " sunken wrack and sumless treasuries " : Heniy V, I, ii, 165. 

6. ''Leave, oh, leave me to my repose": see Thomas Gray's (1716- 
1771) The L( scent of Odin, 50. 

7. " very stuff 0' the conscience " : Othello, I, ii, 2. 

8. " Out upon such half-faced fellowship " : / Henry IV, I, iii, 208. 



458 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

9. Mr. Cobbett's : William Cobbett (i 762-1835), a political journalist 
and essayist. 

10. "Let me have a companion of my way," says Sterne, etc. : some- 
what inaccurately quoted from the eighteenth of the Serjnons of Mr. Yorick. 
On Sterne see note 1 5 to page 248. 

Page 313. 

11. " give it an understanding, but no tongue " : Hamlet., I, ii, 250. 

12. Pindaric ode: after the manner of Pindar (522-443 B.C.), the great- 
est Greek lyric poet. 

13. "He talked far above singing": see Beaumont and Fletcher's 
Philaste?'., V, v, 165-166. 

14. All-Foxden : see note 49 to page 305. 

15. "that fine madness in them which our first poets had" : probably 
an inexact recollection of lines 105-110 of Michael Drayton's (1563-1631) 
To Henry Reynolds — Of Poets and Poesie : 

Next Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs, 
Had in him those brave translunary things 
That the first poets had : his raptures were 
All air and fire, which made his verses clear; 
For that fine madness still he did retain 
Which rightly should possess a poet's brain. 

1 6. Here be woods as green, etc. : Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess., I, 
iii, 26 ff. 

1 7. Phoebe : goddess of the moon and sister of Phoebus, god of the sun. 
Latmos is a mountain range in Asia Minor. 

Page 314. 

18. "take one's ease at one's inn " : see / Henry /F, III, iii, 92-93. 

19. The cups that cheer, but not inebriate: Cowper's Task., iv, 39-40. 

20. Sancho . . . once fixed upon cow-heel: Don Quixote., Part II, chap, 
lix. Sancho Panza was the esquire and counterpart of Don Quixote. 

21. Shandean contemplation: the adjective is formed from Tristrajn 
Shandy., the title of Sterne's novel, and means digressive, reflective. 

22. Procul, procul este profani : " Away, away, ye unhallowed " : 
^neid VI, 258. 

Page 315, 

23. "unhoused free condition is put into circumscription and confine" : 
see Othello, I, ii, 26-27. 

24. "lord of one's self, uncumbered with a name" : Dryden's Epistle 
to fohn Driden., 18, has "Lord of yourself, uncumbered with a wife." 



NOTES 459 

25. association of ideas : the psychological principle according to which 
an idea calls related ideas into consciousness. The " proof " Hazlitt speaks 
of is not known. 

Page 316. 

26. the Cartoons : the drawings of religious subjects by the great Italian 
painter Raphael (1483-1520), made to be reproduced in tapestry. They 
are now in the South Kensington Museum, London. 

27. Paul and Virginia: a sentimental romance by Bernardin de Saint 
Pierre, published 1788. 

28. Madame D'Arblay's Camilla : Madame D'Arblay, or Frances Burney 
(1 752-1 840), an extremely popular realistic English novelist, wrote Evelina^ 
Cecilia^ and Ca7nilla^ of which the last was the least successful, 

29. New Eloise : the letter referred to is number i 7 of Part IV. The 
author, Jean Jacques Rousseau (171 2-1 778), was the great Swiss-French 
sentimentalist and social philosopher and the most powerful personal force 
in the revolutionary movement of the late eighteenth century. His most 
important works are La Nouvelle Heloise{\']6\\ Le Cojitfat social (i 762), 
Eniile^ ou de V Educatio7i (1762), and Les Co7ifessions (1782-1788). La 
Nouvelle LI eloise recounts in a series of letters the love of Julie, a young 
woman of rank, for St. Preux, a man of low birth. Its interest lies largely 
in its passages of fervid passion and of landscape description. Le Contrat 
social is a political work, whose theories formed the basis of Jacobin poli- 
tics in the French Revolution. Upon Ejnile see note 36 to page 224. Les 
Confessions is Rousseau's autobiography, largely concerned with sentimental 
affairs and remarkably frank in its presentation of them. 

30. bon bouche : a titbit, dainty morsel. 

31. "green upland swells," etc. . . . ''glittered green with sunny 
showers": see Coleridge's Ode on the Departing Yea?% stanza 7. 

32. Liberty, Genius, Love, Virtue: this passage reflects the enthusiasm 
kindled by Hazlitt's just-formed acquaintance with Coleridge and by his 
belief in the triumph of the principles of the French Revolution. 

Page 317. 

33. The beautiful is vanished, and returns not : Coleridge's translation 
of Schiller's Wallensteiri's Tod, V, i, 68. 

Page 318. 

34. " Beyond Hyde Park," etc. : from TheMa?i of Mode, V, ii, a comedy 
by Sir George Etherege (1635?-! 691). 

35. Stonehenge : see note 9 to page 231. 



46o THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 319. 

36. " The mind is its own place " : Paradise Lost, i, 254. 

37. With glistering spires and pinnacles adorn'd : Paradise Lost, iii, 550. 

38. the Bodleian . . . Blenheim : the former is the university library at 
Oxford ; the latter, the magnificent house of the Duke of Marlborough. 

39. when I first set my foot on the laughing shores of France : in 1 802, 
after the Peace of Amiens, Hazlitt went to Paris to study and copy the 
masterpieces of art collected there by Napoleon. At the time Hazlitt's 
enthusiasm was about evenly divided between Napoleon and painting. 

Page 320. 

40. " the vine-covered hills and gay regions of France " : from a Song 
by William Roscoe (i 753-1 831). 

41 . the Bourbons : the reigning French dynasty from 1 589 to the French 
Revolution and from the downfall of Napoleon to 1830. The name has 
become synonymous for excessive political conservatism and repression. 

42. " jump " : risk, take chances on ; see Macbeth, I, vii, 4-7. 

43. Dr. Johnson remarked how little foreign travel, etc. : Bosvvell's Life, 
a?mo 1778 (Hill's edition, Vol. Ill, p. 352). 

44. Out of my country and myself I go : the source of this quotation — 
if it is a quotation and not by Hazlitt himself — has not been located. 



On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth 

Page 321. 

1. Motto: from Hydriotaphia, or Urn-Burial^ chap, v; see note 34 
to page 224. 

2. The vast, the unbounded prospect lies before us : see Addison's Cato, 

V,i, 13. 

3. " bear a charmed life " : Macbeth, V, viii, 12. 

4. Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail: see line 32 of the ode 
The Passio7is, by William Collins (i 721-1759). 

Page 322. 

5. "this sensible, warm motion," etc.: Measiwe for Measure^ HI, i, 
120-121. 

6. " wine of life is drank up " : see Macbeth, \\, iii, 100. 

Page 323. 

7. "as in a glass, darkly" : see i Corinthians, xiii, 12. 

8. the foolish fat scullion, in Sterne : see Tristram Shandy, Bk. V, 
chap. vii. 



NOTES 461 

Page 324. 

9. " tho feast of reason and the flow of soul": Pope's l7nitations of 
Ho?'ace, Satire I, 128. 

10. " brave sublunary things " : see note 15 to page 313. 

1 1 . Sidon . . . Tyre . . . Babylon . . . Susa : Sidon was earlier the richest 
and most powerful Phoenician city, as Tyre was later ; Babylon and Susa 
were once capitals of great empires. All four are now mere small towns 
or only heaps of rubbish. 

1 2. The stockdove plain amid the forest deep, etc. : slightly adapted from 
James Thomson's Castle of Indolence, i, 33-34. 

Page 326. 

13. " the purple light of love " : Gray's Progress of Poesy, 41. 

14. Rubens: Peter Paul Rubens (i 577-1640), the great Flemish painter, 
particularly famed as a colorist. 

Page 327. 

15. "the Raphael grace, the Guido air": cf. "Match Raphael's grace 
with thy loved Guido's air," Pope's Epistle to Mr. fervas, 36. Raphael 
Santi (1483-1520) was the great Italian painter of religious subjects in 
particular; Guido Reni (i 575-1 642) was also an Italian painter. 

16. " gain new vigour at our endless task " : see Cowper's Charity, 1 04. 

17. divinae particula auras : particles of divine ether. 

18. Rembrandt: Rembrandt Hermanzoon Van Rijn (i 607-1 669), the 
greatest of the Dutch school of painters. 

Page 328. 

19. "beguile the slow and creeping hours of time" : see As You Like 
It, II, vii, 112.. 

Page 329. 

20. Robbers . . . Don Carlos : plays by Schiller, the first published 1781, 
the second i 787. 

21. From the dungeon of the tower time-rent, etc.: from Coleridge's 
sonnet To the Author of the Robbers, 3-4. 

22. " That time is past with all its giddy raptures " : see Wordsworth's 
Tint em Abbey, 83-85. 

Page 330. 

23. " Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries," etc. : Gray's Elegy., 
91-92. 

24. " all the life of life is flown" : see Burns's Lament for fames, Earl 
of Glencairn, 46. 

25. From the last dregs of life, etc. : see Dryden's Aurengzebe, IV, 
i, 41-42. 



462 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 331. 

26, "treason domestic, foreign levy, nothing could touch us farther": 
see Macbeth^ III, ii, 24-26. 

27. " reverbs its own hoUowness " : adapted from Lear^ I, i, 1 55-1 56. 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 

The three essays in this selection originally appeared as Nos. 7, 1 2, and 
23 of the Roundabout Papers in the Co7'nhill Magazine. 

TuNBRiDGE Toys 
Page 333. 

1 . hardbake : a kind of candy, 

2. prodigal little son: see Luke xv, 11-32. 

Page 334. 

3. bull's-eyes : glass marbles. 

4. form : class. 

Page 335. 

5. Eutropius : (fourth century a. d.), theauthorof a concise history of Rome. 

6. Bartlemytide : the time of the festival of St. Bartholomew, August 24. 

Page 337. 

7. Mr. Sala : George Augustus Sala (i 828-1 895), noveUst and miscel- 
laneous writer. 

Page 338. 

8. Tyburn : the site of the public gallows until its transfer to Newgate 
Prison in 1783. 

9. stumps : the uprights forming the wicket in cricket. 

10. Valancour : one of the principal characters in The Mysteries of 
Udoipho^ a romance of mystery and terror, by Mrs. Ann Radcliffe 
(1 764-1 823). 

1 1 . Manfroni : apparently the chief figure in the tale twice named later 
in this essay. The editors cannot make any further identification, but the 
story is evidently of the same character as The Mysteries of Udoipho. 

1 2. Thaddeus of Warsaw : the principal character in a pseudo-historical 
romance of the same name by Jane Porter (i 776-1 850), 

13. Corinthian Tom . . . Jerry Hawthorn: characters -in the once ex- 
tremely popular Life in London^ by Pierce Egan the elder (1772?-! 849). 

14. a lecture on George II. in the Cornhill Magazine : Thackeray's lectures 
on The Four Georges^ first delivered in America (i 855-1 856), were printed 
in the Cornhill in the issues from July to October, i860. 



I 



NOTES 463 

On Being Found Out 
Page 341. 

1 . coram populo : in the presence of the public. 

2. cried his peccavi : acknowledged his fault ; peccavi is literally " I 
have sinned." 

3. Siste tandem, carnifex : Cease, pray, O executioner! 

Page 342. 

4. Jack Ketch : a famous English executioner (d. 1686). His name was 
applied to the hangman in PuncJi and Judy ^ and then became synonymous 
with hangman. 

5. one of your Bluebeards : in the famous nursery story Bluebeard 
gives his young wife the keys to his castle with permission to enter all the 
rooms but one. Her curiosity compels her to enter the forbidden room, 
in which she finds the bodies of six former wives, whom Bluebeard had 
murdered for disobeying the same prohibition. 

Page 343. 

6. Abb^ Kakatoes . . . Marquis de Croquemitaine : apparently invented 
names ; kakatoes is a French form for '' cockatoo," and croquemitaine 
means " bugbear." 

7. Palsambleu : an archaic French oath ; a corruption of par le sang 
Dieii. 

Page 344. 

8. put the cap out . . . put his head into it : suggested by the proverb, 

" If the cap fits, wear it." 

Page 345. 

9. KTTiixa Is del : an immortal possession. 

10. dies irae : Day of Judgment, literally "day of wrath"; from the 
famous Latin hymn beginning : 

Dies irae, dies ilia. 
Page 346. 

1 1. Bardolph . . . Nym . . . Doll Tearsheet . . . Mrs. Quickly : Bardolph 
is a rascally companion of Falstaff's in Henry IV. In Henry Fhe accom- 
panies the king's army into France, where he is executed for stealing a pax 
(or pyx) from a church {Heujy V, III, vi, 41-51). Nym is his companion 
thief in Henry F(III, ii, 44-57). Doll Tearsheet is a woman of the town 
and a friend of Mrs. Quickly's in 2 He7iry /F, and Mrs. Quickly is the 
hostess of the Boar's Head Tavern, the meeting place of Prince Hal and 
Falstaff. 

1 2. de la society : of the company. 



464 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

De Finibus 
Page 347. 

1 . De Finibus : literally, " about endings." 

2. Stella : Esther Johnson, whom Swift is said to have secretly married 
in 1 716. From 1710 to 171 3, while Swift was in London and Stella in 
Ireland, he wrote her daily letters, which were later published as the 
Journal to Stella. These letters show a playful tenderness and a capacity 
for feeling not hinted at in Swift's other works. 

3. some commentator or other : Thackeray himself in his lecture on 
Swift in the EnglisJi HuiJioii7'ists. 

4. Mr, Johnson . . . touching the posts : see Boswell's Life, anno 1 764 
(Vol. I, p. 485, note I in Hill's edition). 

5. Dodsley's : a famous eighteenth-century printing house, by which 
many of Dr. Johnson's works were published. 

6. Green Arbour Court : the Coi-nhill was printed in Green Arbour Court. 

7. Pendennis, Clive Newcome . . . Philip Firmin : the principal charac- 
ters in Thackeray's novels Pendennis, TJie A'eivconies, and TJie Adventures 
of Philip. The final section of the last named and De Finibus appeared 
in the same number of the Cornhill. 

8. tamen usque recurro : "yet I always come back"; see Horace, 
Epistles I, X, 24. 

Page 348. 

9. Woolcomb . . . Twysden : characters in The Adventures of Philip. 

Page 349. 

10. Angels and ministers of grace: Hamlet, I, iv, 39. 

1 1 . Goethe . . . Weissenborn . . . Weimar : Weimar, the capital of a 
small German principality, was for more than forty years the home of 
Goethe. Through the residence there of Goethe, Schiller, Herder, and 
Wieland, it became the center of German literature. Thackeray resided in 
Weimar for some time in 1831, and had three interviews with Goethe. 
During his stay he had lessons from Dr. Weissenborn. 

Page 350. 

12. as different ... as Lord Palmerston and Mr. Disraeli : Lord Palm- 
erston, for instance, was of Irish, and Disraeli (later Lord Beaconsfield), of 
Jewish descent ; the former was prominent as a Whig, the latter as a Tory. 

Page 352. 

13. once on the Mississippi: Thackeray lectured in America in 1852- 
1853 and again in 1 855-1 856. 



NOTES 465 

14. Jacob Faithful : a lively sea story by Frederick Marryatt(i 792-1848). 

15. Vingt Ans Apres : Twenty Years After^ a sequel to The Three 
Musketeers] both by Alexandre Dumas /tV'^ (i 802-1 870). D'Artagnan, 
named below, is the adventurous hero of both romances. 

1 6. Woman in White : a novel of thrills and mystery, by William Wilkie 
Collins (1 824-1 889). 

17. a la mode le pays de Pole: ''according to the Polish custom"; 
the internecine quarrels of the Poles were marked by the utmost barbarity. 

18. Doctor F ... Mr. T. H : Doctor Firmin and Tufton Hunt 

were villainous characters in the Adventures of Philip. 

Page 353. 

1 9. dilectissimi fratres : most dearly beloved brethren, 

20. "Miserere nobis miseris peccatoribus " : "Have mercy upon us, 
miserable sinners ! " 

2 1 . libera me : deliver me. 

Page 354. 

22. peccavi : see note 2 to page 341. 

23. perennial brass: see Horace, Odes HI, xxx, i : Exegi 7nomunen- 
tuTfi cere pere?tnius — '' I have wrought myself a monument more lasting 
than bronze." 

24. Pythoness : the priestess at the oracle of Apollo at Delphi ; she 
was supposed to be inspired by the god with a spirit of divination. 

Page 355. 

25. Mignon . . . Knight of La Mancha: the persons named in this para- 
graph are all among the greatest characters of fiction. Mignon is the mys- 
terious Italian maiden, the daughter of the old harper, in Goethe's Wilhelni 
Meisters Lehrjahre ; Margaret is Gretchen, the heroine of his Faust ; 
Goetz von Berlichingen is the hero of his early drama by that name, a 
play patterned after Shakespeare's historical plays. Dugald Dalgetty is a 
soldier of fortune in Scott's Legend of Montrose^ and Ivanhoe is the hero 
of the novel of the same name. Uncas is the young Indian chief, the hero 
of Cooper's Last of the Mohicans^ and Leatherstocking is Natty Bumpo, 
the backwoodsman who plays a prominent part in the series of novels of 
Indian and pioneer life — The Leatheistocking Tales. Athos, Porthos, and 
Aramis are Dumas's " Three Musketeers," the companions of D'Artagnan. 
Amelia Booth is the title character of Fielding's Amelia, loving and gen- 
erous. Uncle Toby is the whimsical, tender-hearted uncle of Tristram in 
Sterne's Tristram Shandy. Titdebat Titmouse is the vulgar and simple 



466 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

shopman, who for a time enjoys a great estate in Ten Thousand a Year^ 
by Samuel Warren (i 807-1877). Crummies is an eccentric actor and the 
manager of a cheap theatrical company in Dickens's Nicholas Nickleby. 
Gil Bias is the title character in the famous picaresque romance by Alain 
Rene Le Sage (i 668-1 747); the reference is to a traveling company of 
comedians, with whose fortunes those of Gil Bias are for a time involved. 
Sir Roger de Coverley is the good-natured and somewhat eccentric old 
country gentleman of the Spectator. The Knight of La Mancha is Don 
Quixote, the hero of Cervantes' romance. He is crack-brained from read- 
ing romances of chivalry, while his blessed squire, Sancho Panza, is 
intensely material and matter-of-fact. 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
Walking Tours 

This essay was originally published in the June, 1876, number of the 
Cornhill Magazine ; it was reprinted in Virgitiibus Puerisque (London, 
1881). 

Page 357. 

1. a brown John: apparently a confusion of ''brown george," a large 
earthenware vessel, and "demijohn," a large glass or earthenware bottle. 

Page 358. 

2. "I cannot see the wit," says Hazlitt : the source of this, as of the 
other quotations from Hazlitt later in the essay, is the paper " On Going 
a Journey." See pages 310-31 1 and 316 of the present collection. 

3. a peace that passes comprehension : perhaps a disguised quotation of 
PhiUppians iv, 7. 

4. like Christian on a similar occasion : after Christian had lost his 
burden at the cross, he " gave three leaps for joy, and went on singing " 
{Pilg7'ijn''s Progress, Part I). 

Page 359. 

5. the merchant Abudah's chest : an allusion to a character in Tales of 
the Genii, by the Reverend James Ridley, who was haunted in his dreams 
by an old hag, and was freed only after learning to " fear God and keep 
his commandments." 

Page 362. 

6. " Though ye take from a covetous man all his treasure," says Milton : 
in Areopagitica, near the middle of the work. 



NOTES 467 

Page 363. 

7. a volume of Heine's songs : the lyrics of Heinrich Heine (i 797-1856) 
were among the few German works in Stevenson's reading. His fondness 
for Heine began apparently during his university days. See Balfour's 
Life^ Vol. I, p. 117. 

8. Tristram Shandy : Sterne's Tristram Shandy is so discursive as to 
invite browsing instead of continuous reading. 

9. joviality to the full significance of that audacious word : joviality is 
derived from Jove, the chief of the gods. 

10. Burns, numbering past pleasures : cf. " The Rigs of Barley," stanza 4 : 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear; 
I hae been merry drinking ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; 
I hae been happy thinking. 

Page 364. 

1 1 . Philistines perspiring after wealth : a " Philistine," according to 
Matthew Arnold, who popularized the term in England, is one of those 
people ''who believe most that our greatness and welfare are proved by our 
being very rich, and who most give their lives and thoughts to becoming 
rich " (Culture and Anarchy^ chap. i). 

On Falling in Love 

Stevenson contributed this essay to the February, 1877, number of the 
Cornhill\ it was reprinted in Virginibus Puerisque (1881) as the third of 
a series of four papers bearing the title of the volume. 

Page 365. 

1. Motto: Midstunmer Nighfs Dreain^ III, ii, 115. 

2. c^nacle : a gathering of men of letters, artists, and the like. 

Page 366. 

3. the Apollo Belvedere : a famous antique statue in the Vatican, repre- 
senting the god as a handsome youth. 

4. Leonardo da Vinci : an Italian painter, architect, sculptor, and scientist 
of the Renaissance (1452-15 19). 

5. Goethe in his youth : perhaps Stevenson had in mind here the follow- 
ing sentences of Lewes's Life of Goethe (Bk. II, chap, v), a work to 
which, in his essay on "Books Which Have Influenced Me" (1887), he 
acknowledged a particular indebtedness : " He was now turned twenty, 
and a more magnificent youth never perhaps entered the Strassburg gates. 
Long before he was celebrated, he was Ukened to an Apollo: when he 



468 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

entered a restaurant the people laid down their knives and forks to stare 
at him. . . . The features were large and liberally cut, as in the fine 
sweeping lines of Greek art." 

Page 367. 

6. the difficulty Shakespeare was put into : according to the tradition 
first recorded by Dennis in 1 702, Queen Elizabeth was so much pleased 
with Falstaff in Henry IV that she commanded Shakespeare to write a 
play showing the fat knight in love ; and as a result of this command 
Shakespeare in a fortnight wrote The Merry Wives of Windsor. 

7. Henry Fielding : see note 1 2 to page 248. 

8. a passage or two in Rob Roy : perhaps the following passages were 
in Stevenson's mind (the references are to the edition by Andrew Lang, 
London, 1893): Vol. I, pp. 215-216, 217-219; Vol. II, pp. 241-244. 

Page 368. 

9. nonchaloir : apathy, lack of strong interest or feeling. 

10. unhorsed, like St. Paul, from his infidel affectation : see Acts ix, 1-9. 

Page 369. 

11. Adelaide: a lyric by Friedrich von Matthisson (i 761 -i 831), set to 
music by Beethoven. Stevenson's admiration for the poem and its setting 
appears in a letter to Mrs. Sitwell, dated September 16, 1873 {Letters^ 
Vol. I, p. 60-61). 

1 2. Heine's songs : see note 7 to page 363. 

13. Mercutio : the quick-spirited friend of Romeo. 

1 4. Poor Antony : his infatuation for Cleopatra cost him his empire and 
his life ; see Aiitony and Cleopatra. 

1 5. Les Mis^rables : the best-known novel of Victor Hugo (i 802-1 885), a 
work gready admired by Stevenson for its " masterly conception and . . . 
development," its pathos, truth, and " high eloquence." See his paper on 
" Victor Hugo's Romances." 

16. George Sand: the nom de plume of Baroness Dudevant (1804- 
1876), one of the most eminent of nineteenth-century French novelists. 

17. George Meredith: George Meredith (i 828-1 909), an English poet 
and realistic novelist. A number of Stevenson's letters are addressed to 
him, and in the essay on '' Books Which Have Influenced Me " his Egoist 
stands with such works as Montaigne's Essais, Whitman's Leaves of 
Grass, and Hazlitt's " Spirit of Obligations " as a potent factor in the 
moral and intellectual development of his younger Scotch contemporary. 

1 8. that land of Beulah : in the Pilgrim'' s Progress the beautiful land 
in which " the Shining Ones commonly walked, because it was upon the 
borders of Heaven." 



NOTES 469 

Page 370. 

1 9. magnifico : properly a Venetian nobleman or grandee. 

20. Grandisonian airs : Sir Charles Grandison, the faultless hero of 
Richardson's novel of that name (see note 54 to page 306), is the quin- 
tessence of respect and chivalrous delicacy toward women. 

21. Daniel Deronda : George Eliot's last novel (i 876-1 877), one of the 
literary events of the year in which Stevenson's essay was first published. 
Page 371. 

22. the marriage of Cana : there are three famous paintings of the mar- 
riage at Cana, two by Paolo Veronese (1528-1588; and one by Tintoretto 
(1518-1594). 

Page 373. 

23. " The blind bow-boy " : the phrase occurs in Romeo and Juliet, II, 
iv, 16. 

The Lantern-Bearers 

This essay first appeared in Scribnej-'s Magazine in February, 1888. It 
was later reprinted in Across the Plains, with other Memories and Essays 

(1 892). 

Page 374. 

1 . a certain easterly fisher-village : probably North Berwick, a small 
village on the Firth of Forth, about twenty miles east of Edinburgh. Many 
of Stevenson's vacations as a boy were spent here (see Balfour's Life, 
Vol. I, pp. 36, 67), and the place served as a background for episodes in 
at least two of his later works of fiction — Dai'id Balfour (cf . especially 
Pt. I, chaps, xiii andxiv) and The Pavilioji on the Links. 

2. penny pickwicks : cheap cigars of a type well known in England in 
Stevenson's boyhood. 

3. cocknify : imbue with cockney qualities, citify. 
Page 375. 

4. the Bass Rock : a rock island lying about a mile and a half off shore, 
a short distance east of North Berwick. In the Rebellion of i 745 it was 
one of the last strongholds of the Stuart cause. Cf. Stevenson's description 
of it in Daind Balfour, Pt. I, chap. xiv. 

5. Tantallon : a castle (now in ruins) about three miles east of North 
Berwick. It formerly belonged to the earls of Douglas, one of whom 
(Archibald, d. cir. 1514) bore the nickname of Bell-the-Cat. There is a 
spirited description of Tantallon as it was in the days of this earl, in 
Scott's Mannion (Canto V, stanza xxxiii). 

6. the Law : a steep hill at the back of North Berwick. 



470 THE ENGLISH FAMILIAR ESSAY 

Page 376. 

7. geans : wild cherries (Stevenson's note). 

8. Canty Bay: about two and a half miles east of North Berwick. 

Page 377. 

9. coil : tumult, confusion. 

10. a tragic Maenad : in Greek mythology the maenads, or priestesses of 
Bacchus, were characterized by their frenzied dancing and singing. 

Page 379. 

1 1 . the Old Bailey Reports : the Old Bailey Court, in London, was, 
until 1905, the principal criminal court in England. 

Page 380. 

12. "His mind to him a kingdom was" : a modified quotation of the 
first line of Sir Edward Dyer's (cir. 1550-1607; ''My Mind to me a 
Kingdom is." 

13. thimble-rigger: an adept at thimblerig, hence a swindler. 

Page 381. 

1 4. the fable of the monk : a widespread popular story, known com- 
monly as the story of Monk Felix. See the references given in R. Kohler, 
Kleiiiere ScJiriften^ Vol. II ( 1 900), pp. 239-240. Stevenson may have read it 
in the version in Longfellow's Goldeji Legend {Vi. II ), though the time of the 
monk's absence is there given as a hundred instead of fifty years. For the 
material of this note the editors are indebted to Professor G. L. Hamilton. 

Page 382. 

15. (a murrain on the word!) : a curse on it: the expression has not 
been in common use since the early eighteenth century. 

1 6. Whitman : for the work of this American poet Stevenson professed 
throughout life a warm, though not uncritical, admiration. See especially 
his paper on Whitman in Fajni/iar Studies of Men and Books, and the 
essay " Books Which Have Influenced Me." 

17. a kind of Birmingham sacredness : the meaning apparently is that 
Whitman gave to the term " average man " the same kind of authoritv 
that the name Birmingham confers on the manufactured goods upon 
which it is stamped. 

18. Harrow boys: students at Harrow, one of the great public schools 
of England. 

Page 383. 

19. Zola: Emile Zola (1840-1902), perhaps the best-known of modern 
French realistic novelists. Stevenson, while recognizing his power, had 



NOTES 471 

little sympathy with his artistic ideals and methods. " Diseased anyway 
and black-hearted and fundamentally at enmity with joy " he called him in 
a letter written in 1882 {Letters, Vol. I, p. 275). 

Page 384. 

20. By his fireside, as impotent fancy prompts, etc. : the editors have 
been unable to find the source of this quotation. 

21. a voice far beyond singing: perhaps a reminiscence of Beaumont 
and Fletcher's " He talked far above singing," quoted by Hazlitt in " On 
Going a Journey." See page 3 i 3 of the present collection, and note. 

22. jibbing : balking, contrary. 

Page 385. 

23. Tolstoi's Powers of Darkness : a drama in five acts by Count Leo 
Tolstoi (1 828-1 91 o). the great Russian novelist and religious writer. In 
the crucial situation of the play, Mikita. a peasant who has prospered by 
marr}'ing the widow of his former master, murders the child of his step- 
daughter, Akulina, whom he has seduced, and then, overcome by remorse, 
confesses his crime and gives himself up to the police. 

24. when Levine labours in the field : in Tolstoi's Ajina Karetiiiia, 
Pt. Ill, chaps, iv, V. 

25. when Andr6 sinks beyond emotion: in Tolstoi's \]\ir and Peace, 
Pt. XII, chap. xvi. 

26. when Richard Feverel and Lucy Desborough meet beside the river : 
in George Meredith's The Ordeal of Ricliard Fei'crcl, chap. xv. 

27. when Antony, "not cowardly, puts off his helmet": in Aiitotiy 
and Cleopatra. IV, xv, 56. The quoted phrase is from Antony's dying 
words to Cleopatra. 

28. when Kent has infinite pity on the dying Lear : in King Lear, V, iii. 

29. Dostoieffsky's Despised and Rejected : a novel by the Russian writer 
Feodor Dostoieffsky ( i 82 1 -1 88 1 ). 

30. Itur in antiquam silvam : '' Here is the road to the virgin forest." 
I'he source of the phrase is Virgil, Aiiieid vi, i 79. 






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